


the gusts came around

by bringyouhometoo



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/F, Future Fic, Post-Canon, and unhappy non-endgame Hook/Emma, post-episode: s03e22 There's No Place Like Home, there is past Robin/Regina
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-22
Updated: 2016-08-03
Packaged: 2018-04-10 14:30:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 44,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4395461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bringyouhometoo/pseuds/bringyouhometoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“He’s happy,” Emma repeats, like it’s a mantra.</p><p>“You did that,” Mary Margaret tells her. “You gave him that, Emma. You know that, right?”</p><p>Regina is the only one sitting directly next to Emma, which is probably why she’s the only one who catches the way her shoulders tense, just a little. “I know.”<br/>---<br/>Set five years in the future, in a peaceful Storybrooke where Regina is still Mayor, Henry is looking at college prospectuses, and Emma and Hook are expecting a baby. Everyone's got their happy ending; haven't they?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Here goes! Expect five-ish chapters, hopefully regularly enough. I'm posting with a little less of the next chapters written than I would like, but today is officially my one month anniversary of starting my descent into this sq TRASH LIFE, so it felt appropriate.
> 
> Set approximately 5 years after the end of s3 (and I guess... Some kind of alternate version of s4 where Zelena didn't come back and Marian is Marian and very much alive.)
> 
> Warnings: This fic will contain non-graphic references to pregnancy/childbirth throughout.

When Regina rings the doorbell at Emma’s apartment, bottle of wine in hand, she’ll admit she’s a little nervous.

When Emma invites her in, all flushed cheeks and bright eyes and wordless, breathless excitement, she might go so far as to admit tobeing, fine, more than a little nervous. Emma just hugs her, and Regina feels the air leave her lungs as she automatically wraps her arms around Emma’s shoulders. They’ve never really been casual _huggers,_ certainly not with each other. She thinks, watching Emma step back with a wide smile and a bright, high laugh, that maybe Emma’s over-compensating. That maybe Regina is not the only one who’s nervous.

When Regina walks into the kitchen, and sees the already-assembled dinner party, she stops, brought up short.

Mary Margaret and David, distracted by a squirming Ruth and a boisterous Neal; Henry, who shoots her a long-suffering look while Roland jabbers away next to him; Robin, studiously avoiding eye contact, and Tink looking resplendent beside him; and Hook, sitting at the head of the table like he belongs there and looking more smug than she’s seen him in a long while.

_So._

Not the quiet, nerves-inducing dinner-for-two Regina has been wrestling with ever since Emma invited her, three days ago.

For a few moments, she just stops, and stares.

“Mom!” Henry jumps to her rescue, and hurries over for a hug.

“Henry,” she manages, pressing her face into the top of his hair and taking the opportunity to assume a neutral expression. “How was school?”

“Fine,” Henry says, extracting himself from the hug and pulling her towards the table. “C’mon, sit, they wouldn’t let us start before you got here.”

“They?”

“He means us,” Emma quips; Regina hadn’t heard her come in again, but now she’s moved to the head of the table, bearing an oven tray massed with roast vegetables.

Regina bites the echoing _us?_ back just in time; and then Hook is taking the tray out of Emma’s hands, placing it squarely on the dining table – _their_ dining table, the table they share in the apartment they share, the apartment that Regina’s always just thought of as _Emma’s_ \-  and really, it’s been three years.

She lets Henry pull her into a seat next to Roland; he’s just brimming with stories from his first few weeks at school, and a long-winded discussion about the lunch menu takes them all the way through the main course without Regina being required to make small talk. She still feels off-balance, though, and the two glasses of wine she drank a little too quickly aren’t really helping. It’s not that she was expecting anything dramatic, she tells herself, over and over, listening to Emma laughing brightly, three seats away. It’s just that…

It’s just that, lately, there’s been a significant drop in the amount of times Emma will drop in over lunch, and the number of evenings they’ll spend watching movies together with Henry, and the number of texts Emma might send her in the course of a day’s work for the police department.  She’s been meaning to figure out a way to bring it up, as casually as anything, except of course there’s no way to make that casual, not with Emma; Emma Swan could turn a disagreement over what to serve for dinner into a teachable moment, complete with a clumsy desert-based metaphor. Besides, what is there to say, really? _I feel like you’re avoiding me and I’d like to know why_ is so very dangerously close to _I miss you,_ and the reasons why that particular conversation can’t ever, ever happen… Those reasons have been sitting at Emma’s dining table for three years now, making vaguely inappropriate conversation with her father and luring her son away with sailing lessons and fresh fish.

 _Luring._ She needs to get a grip.

Regina takes another gulp of wine, and forces herself to taste the food she’s been mechanically shovelling into her mouth to avoid conversation for the past few minutes. There’s a kind of ringing in her ears.

She shakes her head to dislodge it, but it’s still there, still ringing –

Except no, it’s not in her ears; someone is tapping a spoon against glass, and the general hubbub of conversation dies down a little.

When Regina looks up, she’s less than surprised to see Hook standing with a wine glass in his hand, his hook tapping against it lightly, commanding everyone’s attention with an entitled sort of look that brokers no discussion; silence falls, and then Emma is back, holding a bottle of champagne.

“You’re probably wondering why we’ve called you all here today,” Hook says, gesturing around at them all with his hook in what seems to be an attempt at roguish, unplanned charm. Regina can feel the beginnings of a headache coming on, and busies herself by smoothing out and refolding her napkin.

And then –

She doesn’t know what does it. Maybe it’s the look on Emma’s face, pink-cheeked and soft, while Hook rambles through an insufferable series of jokes and hints. Maybe it’s the way Mary Margaret looks like she’s about to _burst,_ she’s practically bouncing in her seat; only David’s hand on her knee is keeping her still, and really, has _anyone in this family ever been capable of keeping a secret?_

And then it’s the moment where Emma is pouring champagne for everyone, and she goes to pour her own glass, and Hook –

It’s a brief moment, over in a heartbeat and the smallest of gestures, but Regina doesn’t miss the unspoken reminder – the _reprimand_ – that passes from him to her, in the lightest of touches to her wrist.

Emma sets the bottle down, and picks up her glass of water, and Regina… Regina knows.

Later, she couldn’t honestly say she remembers much of the rest of the evening. There are tears, and heartfelt congratulations, and a lot of excited gabbling that Regina mostly tunes out. And later, when Henry’s watching TV, with Roland and Neal half-asleep in the bunk beds and Ruth curled up in her travel cot, and Hook and David and Robin have gone out to discuss the new porch, or whatever excuse it is they used to get away from the _baby talk,_ Emma brings out a giant tray of brownies and they move to the couch.

“I’m so happy for you,” Mary Margaret says, for what must be the hundredth time. “ _So_ happy, Emma.”

“Yeah, we’re pretty excited.” Emma grins briefly, handing the brownies around and settling herself down with a pillow.

“How far along did you say…?”

“I didn’t,” Emma says, a little self-conscious under her mother’s interrogation. “But coming up to sixteen weeks.”

“Sixteen!” Mary Margaret looks outraged, and privately Regina can’t help but agree; a rapid calculation has whirred through her mind, _that’s five months left._ “That’s so long! _Emma!_ ”

“We’re telling you now,” Emma mumbles, avoiding eye contact. “And you’ve known for like a week, okay?”

“I didn’t realise you were already _fifteen weeks along,_ ” Mary Margaret says, looking hurt. Emma sighs, and reaches out to hold her hand.

“I didn’t want to – “she stops, and corrects herself. “ _We_ thought it’d be better, you know, to wait.” There’s a short pause, before Emma fixes her eyes on her knees and adds, “Stuff can go wrong.”

Regina thinks she can actually _see_ the switch flip in Mary Margaret’s facial expression as she goes from _hurt friend_ to _worried mother_ in an instant. “Oh, Emma…”

“It’s cool,” Emma says quickly, smiling at the room in general. “Just, you know, medical advice for the first trimester, didn’t want to jinx it.”

The glib remark is probably intended to be just that – glib – but Regina thinks she can hear something else behind it; something that’s terrified, irrationally and completely understandably terrified, of bad luck, and omens, and _curses_. Mary Margaret, of all people, surely understands – but then Mary Margaret has never been afraid to wave off past experiences with a hope speech; the evidence of her ability to move on is fast asleep in the next room, two new pieces of _hope_ in matching footie pyjamas in their nephew’s bedroom.

And Emma’s – Emma’s trying, _really hard,_ and Regina’s not sure how much longer she’s going to last under Mary Margaret’s particular brand of reproaching gentleness _._ “I for one am surprised you managed to keep your mouth shut for a whole _seven days,_ ” she says, earning herself an elbow to the ribs from Emma, and – when Mary Margaret swivels, and fixes those wide eyes on her instead – a grateful nudge instead.

The conversation moves on, to ultrasounds and baby names and weird cravings, and Regina spends most of the following half hour arranging the crumbs of brownie into various shapes on her paper plate. She manages a decent attempt at her old castle, and is proud of herself until she catches sight of Emma watching her, and hastily focuses again.

“He’s so thrilled,” Tink is saying, from her spot on the rug. “I can tell.”

“Well, _yeah,_ ” Emma laughs. “He’s been bursting to tell for weeks.”

“He’s wanted this for a long time, hasn’t he,” Mary Margaret says, with a gentle smile, and _god,_ Regina wants to throttle her. “He’ll make a wonderful father.”

Emma grins, puts her hands on her hips in mock hurt. “Glad _one_ of us is getting the mark of approval.”

“Emma!” Mary Margaret smiles, only slightly brittle. “You know I didn’t mean that! Just that I’ve seen how he is with Ruthie, it’s just obvious he’s… Happy.”

“Happy,” Emma echoes. “Yeah, I’d say he is.”

“Finally,” Tink says, and Regina expands her to-throttle list by one more meddling _well-wisher,_ although Tink at least has the decency to look abashed when Emma raises her eyebrows. “You know I knew him before.”

“Yeah?”

“He used to talk about Milah, all the time,” Tink shrugs, and Regina feels rather than sees a stillness settle over Emma, her leg still pressed against hers on the couch.“Get drunk, start yelling about all the babies they were going to have… He usually ended up threatening to kill the Dark One, and passing out below deck.”

Regina snorts at the – admittedly amusing – mental image, but she doesn’t miss the way Emma’s eyes soften with something that looks a lot like regret. Like she’s to blame for Hook’s past hurts, like if only she’d _loved him sooner –_ never mind that she was several hundred years out from being _born_ when Rumpelstiltskin crushed Milah’s heart and set Hook on his path of vengeance.

“He’s happy,” Emma repeats, like it’s a mantra.

“You did that,” Mary Margaret tells her. “You gave him that, Emma. You know that, right?”

Regina is the only one sitting directly next to Emma, which is probably why she’s the only one who catches the way her shoulders tense, just a little. “I know.”

“I’ve never seen him like this,” Tink says, and Emma laughs, a little self-conscious now. “He’s _glowing._ ”

“Isn’t that supposed to be me?” Emma quips, raising an eyebrow; Regina snorts, and Emma looks around at her, smiling only slightly warily. “Regina?”

“I don’t think anyone’s _supposed_ to be anything,” she says, and Emma ducks her head. “Besides, you seem to have that taken care of.”

_Too much._

As soon as the words leave her mouth, she knows it’s too much. Emma’s eyes are so, so open, and she’s seen right through the light tone, hasn’t she, and Mary Margaret is smiling at them from the armchair like this is all she’s ever wanted, her big sister and her grown up daughter, _finally friends._

“What?” Regina snaps at Tink, the easiest target, if only because she’s sitting on the floor and Regina can tower over her. “She _is,_ it’s _hormonal._ No need to start weeping about it.”

“I’m not weeping,” Tink says, baffled, and Regina wants to yell, or maybe break something, and why does this have to be so _difficult._

“I guess we’re both happy,” Emma says, mostly to smooth over the silence. Regina blinks away the thought that she sounds like she’s working hard to convince herself, because that kind of observation isn’t helpful; _or accurate,_ she reminds herself.

Mary Margaret laughs, a bright and bubbly sound, keen to move back into calmer, simpler territory. “Well, of course you are!”

“Yeah,” Emma says, eyes skittering away from Regina’s a moment too late. “Of course we are.”

***

The next couple of days are remarkable for how unremarkable they are. Regina divides her time between work and home; Henry’s back with her for the week, and they make time for movie nights and family dinners between homework and talks about the future. They’re starting to talk about college at school, and _that_ thought alone is enough to fill Regina’s head, take up so much space that everything else is crowded out. Henry isn’t quite sure, yet, what it is he’ll want to do; he’s mentioned history, and anthropology, and world literature, and Regina sometimes worries that he’ll be looking for fairy tales his whole life. But then he’ll talk about this great foreign exchange program that lets sophomores take a semester in Italy and another in England, and a bigger, more pressing concern fights its way to the forefront of her mind.

She’s working hard on being supportive; sometimes, the enthusiasm sounds so real she almost convinces herself that she’s excited for him.

“That sounds wonderful, Henry,” Regina says, flicking through the prospectus with the tips of her fingers, eyes firmly fixed on the pages in front of her. “But those programs must be very competitive. You’ll have to make sure you work hard this year, get off to a good start with your essays, take some placement tests…”

“I know, Mom,” Henry says patiently. He takes the hint, though, and lopes off to make a start on his biology assignment.

When she’s quite sure he’s out of earshot, Regina slams the prospectus shut and collapses onto a chair.

She’s not going to be the smothering parent. She’s _not._ It’s just hard, sometimes, to remember why. The memories are dim, now, worn out after decades of resentment and the last few years of slow, steady healing. But that doesn’t mean Regina can’t remember the feeling of being just that little bit afraid, every time she had to eat or drink at a ball, of ruining her gown; the branches winding their way around her limbs, holding her tight, keeping her captive; her mother’s fingers at the laces of her corset, tugging and _tugging_ until she fits into her wedding dress. The ferocity of that kind of love, the sheer single-minded _conviction_ that this was the right thing to do.

If it’s going to end - and it has to end, for Henry’s sake - it has to end with her.

Twenty minutes later, Regina is still sitting there, staring blankly at the wall in front of her; but the shaking seems to have subsided, at least.

Henry’s quiet at dinner, avoiding all mentions of college admissions and speaking to her in an oddly gentle tone, and Regina is reminded, not for the first time, that he’s always been the only one (no, _not_ the only one, she thinks, and then wishes she hadn’t) able to see right through her.

“You’re all ready for the weekend?” Regina asks, keeping her voice deliberately even. They spend three nights apart almost every week, sometimes four; they can do separation, _she_ can do separation, she’s not clinging, she’s not going to be left reeling –

“Yeah,” Henry says, with a bright smile; keen, now, to talk about something lighter. “Killian’s taking Roland out with us on Sunday. He’s so excited. He’s got a life vest and he wore it to class today.”

Regina smiles. “That sounds nice.”

“It’ll be fun!” Henry grins at her; another oddity in a seventeen-year old boy, to be so enthusiastic about family time, but probably understandable in Henry. “We might go tomorrow, too, Mom’s getting in all the trips she can.”

“Oh?” Regina asks, staring very hard at her water glass.

“You know,” Henry shrugs, standing up to clear the plates and touching her shoulder lightly as he goes. “Don’t think Killian’s gonna want her on the Jolly Roger when she’s all – ” He falls short.

“All _what_?” Regina prompts, her voice a shade too sharp.

Henry squirms under her gaze. “Expecting.”

“Expecting,” Regina echoes, laughing a little. “ _Henry._ You’re not embarrassed!”

Henry shrugs, all at once a teenager from head to toe. “It’s just new,” he says diplomatically, escaping to the kitchen – though which of his mothers he’s trying to protect with the evasion, Regina’s not sure.

“Henry…” When he doesn’t respond, head bent low over the sink, she tries a different tack. “Do you feel like – is it difficult for you, with Emma and Hook – “ Regina stops and corrects herself, tongue stumbling over the alien syllables, to add, “With Killian?”

“Not _difficult_ ,” Henry says quietly. “Just new, Mom.”

“New, how?”

“She’s having a baby,” he shrugs, drying his hands and starting towards the hallway. “It’s new for everyone.”

“Henry – “Regina half rises from her chair, watching his back retreat up the stairs. When he doesn’t respond, she sits back down, and listens to the sound of his bedroom door swinging shut.

She gives him half an hour, then follows him upstairs; when she knocks gently on his door, his answering “Come in!” is more of a relief than Regina would care to admit.

“Henry?”

He’s actually studying, and she feels a rush of affection for this smart, quiet, brave boy; this young man she’s raised, seemingly by accident, to do homework voluntarily and clear the table without being asked.

“Henry, come here,” Regina says softly, sitting down on Henry’s bed – a single bed here, with matching covers that match the walls, and not a race car or rocket ship in sight. Still, it’s hard not to think of pastel blankets and soft nightlights when he curls up into her side, his chin leaning against her shoulder, warm and steady and so, so _hers._ She swallows back the bitter taste lingering at the back of her throat; that has no place in this bedroom, this conversation. “Henry, I wanted to talk to you about your – mother.”

“Emma?”

“Yes, Emma,” Regina nods, with a quiet laugh. “How many mothers do you have?”

“At least double the expected amount,” Henry shoots back, with a smirk. “So I think asking is valid.”

Regina has to laugh at that. He’s so grown up, making jokes and _smirking_ at her while she cracks up; her son. “Well, all right,” she concedes. “But I’m hardly going to refer to myself in the third person, am I?”

“I don’t know!” Henry’s eyes are wide and innocent. “Isn’t that a royal thing? _The queen is not amused_?”

“Very funny,” Regina says flatly, with some difficulty, because it _is._ “Now listen.”

He at least has the decency to look a little contrite. “Sorry.”

Regina smiles, and smooths over his hair. “I know your mother and – Killian – having another child must be… Strange, to think about,” she starts, slowly.

“You can call him Hook if it’s easier,” Henry tells her, with another grin; Regina ignores this, and carries on, speaking directly to a point somewhere above Henry’s left ear.

“But this isn’t because your mother is replacing you, or anything like that, you understand?”

“I know,” Henry says, sounding baffled. “I’m seventeen, Mom, I’m not gonna compete with a baby.”

Regina’s chest aches. Trust Henry to take this so well. “Well,” she tries again. “You’ve said it’s difficult being around the two of them now, with Emma expecting a baby…”

“No,” Henry says slowly. “ _You_ said it must be difficult, I just said it was new.”

Did she really say that? Regina thinks she probably did. “I see.”

“And it is,” Henry shrugs. “New, I mean. But they’re both really happy, and…” He falls silent.

Regina touches his arm, lightly. “And?”

“I saw how happy Mary Margaret and David were,” he says quietly. “When they had Neal, and now with Ruthie. They got another chance to be parents.”

“Henry…” Suddenly, Regina feels oddly guilty. There’s a small, mean voice deep in her chest that’s glad he’s admitting to some mixed feelings; because that means she was right, that she’s guessed at his feelings accurately, perhaps even before he had a word for them. Because she’s his _mother_ , and that’s what she does. “Emma did get – she _is_ a parent. She’s your mother.”

“I know,” Henry says, with a small smile. “And now she gets to do it for real, from the start.”

“Yes,” Regina says. “But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t – you’re just as much her son, her family. That’s not going away.”

Henry leans into her side, and she wraps her arms around him. He’s oddly still against her, like he’s being careful – like he’s guarding something. And then he says, “Yeah, but, it’s not like I’m gonna be going on sleepovers every week anyway, right? I’ll be in school soon.”

“Well, yes,” Regina says, forcing her voice to remain even, in control. “Of course. But you’re not going for a while yet, Henry, there’s a whole year left, and there’s going to be a lot of changes in that year, and – “

“Mom?” Henry interrupts her quietly.

Regina freezes. She knows that tone. “Yes?”

“It’s okay.”

“ _What_ is?” Regina snaps, and then regrets her tone, because sharpness is still her first defence in the face of uncomfortable confrontations, but she never means to take it out on Henry. She tries again. “What do you mean, Henry?”

He’s silent for a long moment, and then – studiously inspecting his fingernails, giving her the space to react without making eye contact, and _how_ did she ever raise this wonderful, kind boy? – he says carefully, “Emma’s not replacing us, I know.”

Regina takes a long time – _too long_ – to regain control of her facial expression, but when she does speak, she’s glad to hear that her voice is even and neutral. “I’m glad you know that.”

“Of course I know that,” Henry says softly, and is she imagining the emphasis on the word _I_? He sounds like he’s smiling, and then she feels him reaching for her hand, his fingers lacing through hers, and for a minute they just sit like that.

Henry’s presence is comforting, grounding; but Regina can feel the blood rushing through her ears, can hear her heart beating too loudly against her ribs.

“Well,” she says finally, because she can’t just say _nothing._ “I’m glad you’re feeling alright about it, then.”

“I am!” Henry insists, lifting his head up to look at her with those wide, honest eyes. “It’s better than alright, Mom! It’s a _baby_!”

Regina manages a smile. “Quite.”

“I never, like, _really_ wanted a little brother or sister,” Henry says casually, with a faint smile. “But having Roland around was cool, and it’s… I like it.”

Regina doesn’t say anything to that, mostly because she doesn’t quite trust herself to. She just tousles his hair, and gets up from the bed, smoothing down the creases in her pants and clearing her throat. Henry leans back against the space on the mattress she’s just vacated, and gives her a sleepy smile.

“I’ll finish homework later,” he promises, misreading her pause as the precursor to a discussion. “Just gonna read for a bit.”

“Not too late,” Regina says, tight-lipped; then, making sure to keep her smile set in place while she watches him dig out his book, she flees the room.

It’s not until she’s made it to the safety of her bedroom, the door swinging shut behind her, that Regina allows the trembling to take over her hands. She sits down slowly, sliding down the back of the door until she reaches the carpet.

This isn’t something she is going to feel guilty about.

It’s _not._

But she thinks about Henry helping Roland into his life jacket; she remembers last weekend, when he was put in charge of feeding Ruthie her afternoon mush, and wiped every last blob of banana out of her ears with infinite patience. Unbidden, images of the first hospital visit come to mind. Henry, cradling an infant brother or sister, and Emma smiling at them both, and -

Her cheeks are wet.

She’s going to be fine in a few minutes; she’s going to go pour herself a drink, and go upstairs to help Henry through his History assignment, and then they’re going to watch an episode of _Buffy_ together and he’ll go to bed, and so will she.

In a few minutes, her hands will stop shaking and she’ll be able to wipe away any hint of redness around her eyes, and she’s going to be fine.

For now, though, Regina can only find the energy to form one painfully coherent thought. Maybe Henry’s right, and he’s got nothing to worry about. Maybe it’s not _the two of them_ that’s going to get replaced.

*******

Granny’s is quiet at this time of day; the only other people in here are two young mothers with strollers and coffees - Regina recognises one of them, and she has a feeling she might be Thumbelina, but honestly at this point how is she supposed to keep track - and an assortment of dwarves playing darts.

“Here you go,” Marian says, placing a plate onto the table and then sliding into the booth. “Coffee’s on its way.”

“Thank you,” Regina says, and a companionable silence falls as they each reach for a croissant and start tearing off little bits of fluffy pastry. Roland, perched on the bench next to his mother, barely bothers looking up from his DS long enough to swipe a donut and then ignore them again.

These coffee mornings are a new, slightly unexpected addition to what Emma has taken to dubbing _Keeping up with the Mills-Hoods_. Robin had been adamant that he wouldn’t stand in the way of Regina staying in Roland’s life, but he’d been equally resistant to actually attending these meetings, preferring to simply call ahead and tell Regina where to meet Roland, usually through a third party. This third party, more often than not, happened to be Marian.

And when, two years into working hard to make their marriage work for Roland’s sake, Marian had quietly and firmly decided to stop being both the cause and consolation prize for Robin’s happiness, well, Regina and Marian had simply cut out the middleman, and started meeting up with increasing regularity, Roland usually in tow. It’s been an unexpectedly bright spot in all of this; Regina hadn’t counted on finding an ally in Marian, had in fact strongly resisted the very _idea_ of it, but now that they’ve settled into it, she thinks it was sort of inevitable. They understand each other, and they sort of share Roland now (Regina’s pretty sure he sees her more often than he sees his father) - and, more than that, she _likes_ Marian. She is unavoidably, and slightly frustratingly, simply a _likeable_ person.

And now, apparently, her friend.

“How’s school?” Regina asks, and waits for Marian to nudge Roland out his console-induced stupor.

“Good,” he tells her, and then - when he seems to sense that this wasn’t enough, he twists his lips into a small scowl and puts the DS to one side. “I like the paintings, and we’re gonna _watch birds._ ”

Regina rolls her eyes. Sometimes she’s not sure if promoting Mary Margaret to principal was a good idea. The whole school seems to have developed a startling bias for bird-related education, and if she has to go through _another_ six years of bird drawings, bird houses, bird baths and birds’ nests, all brought home with a toothy smile and an expectant look, she’s not sure she can muster the required enthusiasm.

But she just smiles, and says, “That sounds fun. And I hear you’re going sailing now?”

Roland’s face lights up; he’s all dimples and sparkling eyes, and she shouldn’t resent the source of that excitement, she really shouldn’t.

“I got to drop the - the - the - “ his little face screws up in concentration. “Anchor.”

Regina forces a laugh. “How lovely,” she says, and swiftly looks to change the topic. “And how’s your father?”

Roland shrugs, the studied nonchalance that only a seven-year-old can muster. “Good.”

“Good?” Regina prompts, and waits; she knows, from years of drawing conversation out of Henry, how to wait for him to speak.

“He’s busy,” Roland says lightly.

“Working hard?”

The pause before Roland nods and says, “Yep!” tells Regina everything she needs, or wants, to know. Marian’s comforting hand on her son’s back is only confirmation of what she’s already guessed.

“And Tink - “

“Her too,” Roland says, his face twisting with what seems like a concerted effort to keep smiling. “Can I have cocoa?”

“Sure, honey,” Regina says, half-standing up already - and then she remembers herself, and looks to Marian. “If your mom says that’s alright.”

“Of course,” Marian smiles, and Regina can breathe again, because Roland isn’t Henry, and Marian isn’t Emma, and it’s _okay,_ and right now a cup of cocoa isn’t a bargaining chip or leverage; right now it’s just a cup of cocoa.

“Why don’t you go up and order it yourself,” Marian says then, digging out a few crumpled bills from her purse and patting Roland on the arm. “See if you can sweet-talk Granny into sending over some more of these croissants.”

Roland slides out of his chair and heads off towards the counter. Regina smiles, watching him go. His legs are starting to lose their toddler’s pudge, but he’s still somewhere between a wobble and a walk; Regina’s reminded of Henry at that age, bright-eyed and running towards her at the school gates. She’s jerked out of her thoughts when Marian leans forwards, fixing her with a challenging kind of look.

Regina shifts, uncomfortably aware of what they might be about to discuss. “What?”

“Do you think he’s happy?”

“Roland?”

“Robin,” Marian says, her face dropping just a little. “With her, with - Tinker Bell.”

“I think…” Regina pauses, searching for the right words. “I think he’s looking for his happiness, and he’s not sure where to start.”

“But he _had it_ ,” Marian sighs. “He had it _twice._ ”

“Yes,” Regina says, weighing her words carefully; she’s had nearly three years to come to grips with what ending a relationship with her _soulmate_ means, and Marian’s barely had six months. The wounds are rawer, still. “And he never really - had a choice.”

“Yes, he did,” Marian says, sounding suddenly resentful. “He had a choice when he came back to me.”

“Because you were _married,_ ” Regina says, not unkindly; she leans across the diner table, and takes Marian’s hand lightly in hers. “And because he loved you, of course he did - and it’s not that he was _happier_ with me, but - “

“But he came back because he felt like he had to,” Marian sighs. “I know.”

Regina watches her carefully. “Marian, it was you who ended things,” she reminds her; not that it needs saying. “I thought you were… I thought it was your choice.”

“It was,” Marian says. “I just didn’t expect - “

She cuts herself off, with a hollow laugh, and masks the ensuing pause by taking an unnecessarily long sip of coffee. Regina just watches her; watches as she puts her mug down, blots invisible stains from her lips with a serviette, and then starts tearing it into tiny pieces. When it becomes apparent that Marian isn’t about to finish her sentence, Regina sighs.

“You didn’t expect him to move on so fast.”

Marian smiles; a small, bitter smile, a pale imitation of her habitual brightness. “That’s pathetic, isn’t it.”

“No,” Regina tells her quickly. “Just… Not helpful, to you.”

“I know.”

Regina fixes her with an appraising stare. “And he’s being awful,” she says, her tone of voice allowing for no arguments. “Barely seeing Roland. Parading Tink around in front of you, in front of _me_ like I’m going to get jealous now, too - “

“He’s trying to move on,” Marian says, although she sounds fairly timid; Regina shakes her head fiercely.

“ _No._ Besides, if this is his idea of a rebound then that’s a - “ she struggles, for a minute, to come up with the right words. Emma might call it a _dick move,_ but Regina Mills refuses to let those words ever pass her lips. “Foul, foul thing to do to Tink.”

“I miss him,” Marian admits quietly. “I miss what we were.”

“I know.”

“We really were happy,” Marian says, and then, avoiding Regina’s eyes: “But you were always… If I hadn’t come back, he would have stayed with you.”

“I know,” Regina says again, and really, that’s all there is to say.  

“And now he’s with _Tink,_ ” Marian says, suddenly vicious. Her hands are clawing at the shredded remnants of serviette now, and Regina is reminded all at once that this woman was once a runaway; an outlaw’s lover; bride to a thief, married at dead of night with two witnesses and a fierce sense of freedom in her heart. “I don’t _understand -_ “

“He’s trying too hard to find someone for forever,” Regina says, with a dismissive shrug. “It’s perfectly textbook behaviour.”

Marian stares at her for a long moment, and then lets out a shaky laugh. “Poor Tink.”

“I think she knows,” Regina says carefully. “I think she doesn’t care.”

“But - “

“She swore, years ago,” Regina says, the words heavy on her tongue. “To bring him his happy ending. And I think she blames herself, for how that...turned out. If I had to guess, I’d say she’s trying to fix it herself, now. Make him happy.”

She thinks, suddenly, that they make quite a trio; the soulmate, the wife, and the magic fairy, all orbiting around this one man who never asked for or deserved all this _devotion._ And she thinks about _happy endings,_ and how all too often they seem to involve love as some kind of reward for goodness.

And then Regina’s mind goes a little blank, and she absolutely, _determinedly_ doesn’t think of anything else.

Marian, perhaps sensing that she’s asked for a little too much reassurance and struck some kind of tender spot, gives Regina’s hand a gentle squeeze; and then her phone buzzes, and she gives Regina an apologetic sort of grimace before going to check it.

And then.

“We should go,” Marian says, too brightly, standing up and looking around for Roland, who is perched on a stool by the bar, and charming Granny into parting with candy from the jars behind her cash register. “Roland! Come on, honey, do you want to go play?”

“Okay,” he says, with a chocolate-smeared smile, and Marian turns back to Regina.

“Should we go to the park?” Her voice is slightly too high-pitched to be entirely natural, and Regina barely contains the impulse to roll her eyes.

“I want another coffee,” she says, pointedly staying sat on the bench. “Sit down, Marian, we’ve got time.”

“Of course we have,” Marian says, _far_ too enthusiastically. “But it’s such a wonderful day! Should we get coffees to go?”

“No,” Regina tells her, smiling sweetly and enjoying herself perhaps disproportionately when Marian grows even more flustered. “I’d like to stay here. Why don’t we order some lunch?”

“We could - “ Marian sounds practically _manic,_ her cheerful facade betraying an ever-growing desperation. “We could go somewhere else for lunch, I could cook something for us, or - “

But then the door jangles open, and Regina squares her shoulders

She’d suspected something the minute that text message arrived. She’d had a good idea as soon as Marian started encouraging her to leave with that panicked tone of voice. And from Marian’s painfully feeble attempt at subtlety, Regina had known that _someone_ was going to walk through that door - and she almost welcomes it. Spending time with Marian and Roland always puts her in a slightly confrontational mood, like she’s going to finally yell at him, three years after the fact -

But it’s not Robin who saunters into the diner and greets her with a smile and a wave. It isn’t even Tinker Bell.

It’s Emma.

Regina stares at Marian, heart hammering sickly against her ribs.

“How - “ she starts, her lips shaking; she’s going to be sick, she’s going to be sick right here in Granny’s diner, _how, how, how -_ “Emma! Hello!”

“Hi,” Emma grins, leaning down and pressing a kiss to Marian’s cheek before sliding into Regina’s side of the bench. “Move.”

“Excuse me,” Regina manages, lips pressed tightly together. “Manners, Swan.”

Emma nudges her, none-too-gently, in the ribs. “Pregnant.”

Regina clenches her hands into fists, hidden in her lap; and then she moves up, careful to give Emma as much space as she possibly can. “Fine.”

There is a pause which _probably_ only seems strained to Regina; and then Marian is asking Emma after her parents, her new dishwasher, and her plans for the weekend, and the silence is filled with pleasantries, and Regina has time to regain control of her lungs.

When she’s sure she’s breathing normally again, she risks a sideways glance at Emma; and that’s almost enough to set her nerves trembling again, because Emma is _pregnant._

_Of course she’s pregnant, you idiot._

Of _course_ Emma is pregnant; Regina’s known this for weeks now. And sure, in the brief moments she’d seen Emma, picking up Henry or driving past in the patrol car or shopping for groceries, she’d been very much aware of the fact.

But this is the first time she’s spent any time at all with Emma, in the three weeks since that dinner party, and in those three weeks, Emma has somehow gone from the subtle kind of pregnant you only saw if you knew what you were looking for to…

She’s glowing. It’s a cliché, and Regina feels like she should roll her eyes at it, but it’s true. There’s a new rosiness in her cheeks, a new softness to all her angles; and the bump, swelling beneath the knitted fabric of a scoop-necked sweater, is unmissable.

Emma’s still talking to Marian, her eyes bright and hands gesturing animatedly while she describes her plans for the sheriff station’s next renovation; apparently, the cells could really do with a new coat of paint, and the bunks are, like, _super_ uncomfortable, she’d forgotten until the other day, when she got really tired and tried to have a nap in one of them -

Regina puts all thoughts of _nesting_ out of her mind, and just watches her talk.

“And you, Regina?” Emma says suddenly, turning to Regina and fixing her with a keen smile. “Been a while! How’s it going?”

“Well, thanks,” Regina says, a little stiffly. “How are you feeling?”

If Emma’s disappointed by the non-answer, she doesn’t let on; just smiles, cheeks dimpling. “I’m great,” she says, her voice dropping a few notches into honesty. “Just came back from my second scan.”

She doesn’t want to have this conversation; she doesn’t, she doesn’t, she _won’t_ have this conversation; she should have run, should have gone to the bathroom, should have let Marian steer her out of the diner before _this_ happened -

But all Regina says is, “That’s wonderful.”

“Yeah,” Emma smiles, her eyes soft. “There was such a change, we could see the face, and the hands, and everything, it was...“

“Good?” Marian fills in, when Emma falls silent.

“Killian cried,” she adds, with some satisfaction.

And then, because Regina’s morning couldn’t possibly get any worse, the door swings open yet _again,_ and in walks _Killian,_ craning his neck and shouting at the diner at large _._

“Emma!”

“Over here,” Emma calls, meeting Regina’s gaze with a smirk; Regina, who doesn’t much feel like conspiring in winding up the father-to-be, just takes another sip of long-cold coffee.

“There you are,” Hook says, sauntering up and pressing what Regina can only think of as a careless kiss to Emma’s cheek. “She told you where we’ve just been?”

His voice is a strange mix of smug pride and genuine, palpable excitement, and for a full ten seconds she almost feels bad for the dislike she’s been nursing. And then he says, “She’s so damn _beautiful,_ Swan,” and Emma’s face drops, and everything falls to pieces.

Regina doesn’t think Hook realises at once that something is wrong - he’s turned to Marian, and starts talking about the scan. How they got to see her fingers, and her toes, and how her heartbeat is nice and strong, which is a good thing, and isn’t technology _marvellous, really, how did we ever do without it -_

Emma is staring at her knees, and Regina thinks she sees a solitary tear splash against her hands, her knuckles a shock of white against the navy blue of her jeans.

Slowly, silently, she reaches over and slides a hand over Emma’s.

Hook is still talking, and now Roland has wandered back over, his face smeared with chocolate frosting, and of course Hook takes this as his cue to start the whole story _again._ And Emma still hasn’t said a word, but her thumb has tucked over Regina’s, and she’s started breathing again.

When Hook finally turns to his left, and catches sight of Emma’s pale cheeks - and Regina’s hand, curled around hers in a gesture which can only be described as _protective -_ he just raises an eyebrow. “Love?”

For a second, Regina doesn’t think Emma’s going to say anything; and then she says one word, and everything makes a horrifying amount of sense. “She?”

Hook just stares at her. “Yes? Our baby, Emma, I’m not going to call her _it._ ”

“You - “ Emma cuts herself off swiftly, and Regina feels a new, fiercely angry grip around her fingers. “We - we _agreed._ ”

“Emma, I don’t…” Hook looks uncomfortable. “What’s got you upset, love?”

Emma laughs flatly, and the sound is so horribly _defeated_ that Regina almost flinches; in the pause that follows, she’s dimly aware of Marian hustling Roland out of his seat and into his coat, hurrying away with a few mumbled words of goodbye - and she’s still trapped against the wall of the booth. She considers standing up, asking them both to let her leave them alone - but Emma’s fingers are tight around hers, and Regina stays, keeping her head bowed and her hand where it is.

“What did you do?” Emma’s asking now, her eyes fixed on Hook. “Go back and ask Whale while I was in the bathroom?”

Now, at last, Hook seems to gain some comprehension of what he’s done. “I might have asked for another look, yeah.” he says, and he doesn’t even have the decency to fake a hint of regret. “Can’t remember if it was with you there, it was all a bit of a blur...“

“After we talked about it?” Emma asks, voice steely, and Regina feels a surge of fierce, raw pride. “ _After_ I said, this _morning,_ after we _agreed_ not to find out?”

“I didn’t think it was that important to you - “

“I told you!” Emma snaps, her voice suddenly loud - Hook goes to _shush_ her, but some modicum of self-preservation clearly stops him just in time. “I told you - I told you - “

“Let’s talk outside,” Hook suggests, with a meaningful glance towards Regina. “Alright?”

“No,” Emma tells him, and Regina _sees_ him flinch back. “No, I’ll see you at home. _Later,_ ” she adds, with a sharp emphasis that, finally, seems to sink in. Hook stares at her for a few seconds longer, and then abruptly stands up.

“I didn’t think you’d get this upset,” he says, somewhat uselessly. “I just didn’t see the point in waiting.”

“The _point_ was - no,” Emma shakes her head again; now that Hook’s stood up, all the anger seems to be draining out of her, fast enough for her to slide smoothly back into damage control. “No, I said we’ll talk later, okay? It’s fine. I just didn’t expect to find out like - in Granny’s, you know?”

Hook smiles faintly, and nods. “Alright, if you’re sure.”

Emma dredges up the ghost of a smile; Regina thinks she can see the effort it takes her. “I’m sure,” she says quietly. “I know you were just…excited.”

“Bloody ecstatic,” Hook nods, confirming his complete and utter failure to get the point. “I’ll see you at home, then.”

“Bye.” Emma leans up a little, tipping her face up to let him kiss her, and then he’s gone, and they’re alone.

Regina doesn’t quite trust herself to speak straight away; instead, she just concentrates on rubbing tiny circles against Emma’s wrist with her thumb, and focuses on the warmth of their shoulders, pressed together, and waits.

“Don’t,” Emma says suddenly, surprisingly; Regina lifts an eyebrow.

“Don’t what?”

“I know he messed up,” Emma says, looking away and pulling her hand from Regina’s. “And _he_ knows he messed up.” When Regina barely manages to conceal a scoff, she grimaces. “Kind of. I think.”

“You didn’t want to find out,” Regina says quietly, and she doesn’t _want_ to start this conversation but they seem to be having it anyway.

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

Emma shrugs; when Regina fixes her with a stare, she twists her fingers in her lap, and ducks her head, and starts talking. “Everything’s always been decided, you know? Coming back from New York was because of the memory spell. _Going_ to New York was because of the curse. Henry bringing me here in the first place. Neal. Lily. August found me in the woods when I was a _day old_ \- “ she laughs, clearly surprised at herself. “God, I don’t know, is it crazy that I just wanted to _let_ something happen?”

“No,” Regina says quietly, holding herself very still when Emma leans further into her side, and thinking about the day she’d found out who Henry was; how much she’d loved having this one thing completely on her terms, small and perfectly-formed and hers, hers all alone. And then the betrayal; the hurt and the fear and the sense of sickening inevitability, to discover they hadn’t been _her_ terms at all. “No, it doesn’t sound crazy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I SWEAR THIS IS SWAN QUEEN.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am officially garbage. Sorry, everyone. (Also, a quick note: I received a few angry comments about the presence of Hook and Hood in this fic. They are tagged. And temporary, I promise.)

 

 **i** **.**

It’s nine thirty in the evening, and Regina is _exhausted._ It’s been one of those days that just wouldn’t end - a town planning meeting that had eaten into her lunch hour, a long and convoluted discussion with Leroy about expanding the mines, stopping by the hospital to oversee the charity auction being set up by the nuns, and going through endless pieces of paperwork that just kept piling up, no matter how many of them she signed and stamped.

And then, coming home, there had been laundry to fold, floors to sweep, dishwashers to unload, and, _finally,_ dinner to cook. She’s just sitting down to eat now, the TV switched to the news, a plate of chicken and rice set on the table, and a half bottle of red wine uncorked and ready to pour.

It’s almost perfectly timed. Regina pulls out the chair, sits down, reaches for the bottle - and the phone starts ringing.

She closes her eyes for a few seconds, and seriously considers just letting it ring to voicemail.

And then she gets up and goes to check the caller ID, at least, thinking that if it’s anyone from work then she’ll deal with them tomorrow. When she reaches the phone, Regina feels her chest tighten. _Emma._ Suddenly afraid, she snatches the phone up, and presses it to her ear.

“What, Emma?” It comes out snappier than she’d intended.

“...Mom?”

Regina breathes out slowly. _Of cours_ e, he’s staying over tonight, he probably just forgot his pyjamas… “Henry?”

“Mom, can you come over?”

It’s only now that Regina registers the tone of Henry’s voice, somewhere between frustration and fear. “Henry, what’s wrong?”

“It’s Emma,” he says, and Regina’s already reaching for her car keys. “She feels really sick, Mom, I don’t - I don’t know what to do, she _says_ it’s nothing, but what if it isn’t, and I’m - I thought I should - “

“You did the right thing,” Regina soothes, catching the tremble in his voice. “I’ll be right over.”

*

The first thing Emma does when she opens the door to her apartment is roll her eyes. And then she shouts “Damn it, kid!” over one shoulder, and gives Regina an apologetic grimace. “Sorry to drag you out here. I’m fine.”

“Yes, I can see that,” Regina says, stepping gingerly into the hallway and taking in the dishevelled living room; discarded tissues litter the floor, there’s an uneaten plate of crackers sitting on the coffee table, the curtains are drawn shut, and the air is stifling. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Emma sniffs, shrugging when Regina raises her eyebrows. “I’m just not feeling too great!”

“Have you seen a doctor?”

Emma scowls. “No.”

“Taken any medicine?”

“No!”

“Do you have a fever?”

“I -” Emma looks, for the first time, slightly unsure. “No?”

“Oh, for god’s sake,” Regina rolls her eyes, and pulls Emma towards her by one arm. “Stay still. _Still,_ I said.”

Gently, she rests the back of her hand against Emma’s forehead; the other hand is still curled around her arm, and Emma’s bump is pressed against her coat, warm through layers of fabric and wool.

“I’m fine,” Emma says, quietly; Regina is firmly looking at a spot just to the right of her ears, but she feels Emma’s eyes on her. “Really.”

“Okay,” she says eventually, letting go of Emma’s arm and stepping back slightly. “You’re not feverish.”

“Told you,” Emma smirks.

“Still worth making sure,” Regina tells her sharply, and Emma almost flinches at the reprimand; Regina bites her lip, and continues in a softer tone. “A fever during pregnancy could be something that needs attention, that’s all.”

“I know,” Emma grumbles, carefully sitting down and pulling her sweater tighter around herself. “It’s just morning sickness, get it all the time, I _told_ Henry not to worry, but - “

“Emma,” Regina cuts her off. “You’re still getting morning sickness?”

Emma looks confused. “Yeah? Well, not just in the mornings, I’m pretty much just throwing up whenever, but it’s fine, I’m pregnant, pregnant women throw up.”

“Not - “ Regina pinches the bridge of her nose, and breathes in and out before she trusts herself to speak again. “Not usually past the first trimester, Emma.”

There’s a long silence. When Emma finally speaks, it’s in a small, scared voice. “Oh.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing to _worry_ about,” Regina says quickly. “Just, not completely common. Might be worth speaking to Doctor Whale about it.”

“Right,” Emma nods, staring at her feet; Regina feels oddly guilty, and takes another step back; she pulls out her phone, and sends a quick text message before looking up again.

“I’ll clear up a bit, shall I?” she says, gesturing unnecessarily around the apartment. “Sit down. Have you eaten?”

“Yeah, we got burgers and fries at Granny’s, then stopped for donuts on the way back, and I’m - “ Emma looks around, and picks up an opened bag of chips. “Like halfway through these.” Regina stares at her for so long that Emma grows uncomfortable. “What?”

“What did you have for lunch?”

Emma frowns. “Grilled cheese.”

“Breakfast?”

“Just coffee.”

“Dinner last night?”

“We got pizza,” Emma mumbles; she seems, finally, to realise where Regina is going with these questions.

“ _Emma_ ,” Regina says, exasperated. “You _idiot._ ”

“Hey now,” Emma says, lips twitching slightly. “You can’t be rude to the pregnant lady.”

Regina just scoffs. “That might work with your pirate, dear,” she says, fighting a smile. “But I’m not so easily won over. I’ve got seventeen years’ experience of a boy trying to get what he wants by pulling those moves, remember?”

“Yeah,” Emma says, sounding half-surprised. “I do.”

For a moment, they just stare at each other. It’s not something they talk about, really; the years of memories Emma had in New York. Memories of Henry’s childhood, his first words, his first day at school, their first big fight and the way he’d come knocking on her bedroom door at four in the morning to apologise with a hug, all three foot six of him.

Emma remembers that fight. Regina remembers that fight. _Henry_ remembers it, but Regina hasn’t asked (hasn’t dared to ask) which of them is there behind the door in his version of events.

“Well,” she says now, turning away rather abruptly. “Be that as it may. Where _is_ Hook, anyway?”

“Out,” Emma says lamely. “One of the dwarves’ birthday drinks.” When Regina looks at her questioningly, Emma just shrugs. “I told you, I’ve been throwing up all the time, there was no reason for him to be worried _tonight._ I _told_ him to go.”

“Of course,” Regina says smoothly, seeing the spots of bright red in Emma’s cheeks; she casts wildly around for something else to talk about, and is only mildly horrified when what she says next is: “But you have _got_ to start eating better.”

“I eat fine!” Emma protests, smiling reluctantly when Regina just stares at her. “Okay, so it’s junk, but I’m eating for two.”

“But nothing,” Regina says decisively, gently manoeuvring Emma onto the couch. “You need vitamins, you need minerals, you should start on iron and folic acid supplements, probably some high-fibre cereals, lean proteins…”

“When did this turn into a life coaching seminar?” Emma asks weakly, but she’s smiling as she says it. Regina pointedly ignores her, and starts towards the kitchen. “Where are you going?”

“I’m making a list,” Regina calls, already opening the refrigerator. “We’re going grocery shopping tomorrow. _After_ your appointment with Doctor Whale, which is at... ” She taps at her phone. “Nine fifteen.”

“You really don’t have to do this,” Emma calls over, but her voice is strangely soft; and Henry, who’s been keeping wisely to his room, seems to take this as a sign that it’s safe to emerge. He pads into the living room in his old blue slippers, and curls up on the couch next to Emma. Regina, still rifling through Emma’s cupboards and making notes on her phone, smiles when she hears his carrying whisper.

“Has she finished telling us off about the donuts?”

“I don’t think she’ll ever be done telling us off, kid,” Emma whispers back; she looks up, and catches Regina’s eye, and smiles.

***

 

**ii.**

 

Regina lets herself in the next morning with Henry’s spare keys, shrugging off her coat and slipping out of her shoes before heading inside with her grocery bags. She glances in through the half-open living room door on her way through, and catches a glimpse of Hook sprawled out on the couch, his leather coat draped over half his torso, his mouth open in an unattractive snore. Regina bites back the immediate tangle of curiosity, worry, and not a little bit of contempt that rises at the back of her throat, and quietly shuts the door on him before going across to the kitchen.

It takes half an hour for the rest of the apartment to wake up around her. First, she hears someone pad to the bathroom in slow, sleepy steps. Next, ten minutes later, she hears someone walk down the hallway - and then Emma is stumbling into the kitchen in a loose tank top and sweats, her hair a tangled mess around her face.

“Oh, my god, can I smell _breakfast_ \- “She stops short when she sees Regina. “Oh.”

“Good morning,” Regina says, averting her eyes slightly while Emma tugs at the straps of her top.

“Morning,” Emma says blankly. “What, uh. What are you doing?”

Regina gestures to the pans on the stove; the books she’s stacked on the dining table. “You’re going to eat a balanced meal for once,” she says, ignoring the way Emma rolls her eyes. “And a lot of _these_ I got before I adopted Henry, they all have pregnancy chapters as well.”

“Oh. Thanks.”

“No need to sound so thrilled,” Regina says, and Emma rolls her eyes. “Now, sit - “

She’s about to set the plates down when there’s a groan from the living room. Emma pauses, her hand still on the back of her chair. Her face is still and impassive, but there’s a tendon stretched taut in her neck and her fingers are clenched so tightly into a fist around the chair that her knuckles are showing through.

“Be right back,” Emma says, straightening up and turning her face away. Regina touches her arm lightly as she passes her; the tension in Emma’s shoulders softens slightly. “Give me two minutes.”

Then she’s outside, shutting the door behind her, and a few seconds later Regina hears a low buzz of conversation. She can’t make out more than indistinct sounds, and spends the next few minutes clattering around the kitchen so loudly that even those are muffled.

Eventually, there are the unmistakeable sounds of someone dragging themselves to the bathroom in heavy boots, and then the sounds of running water, and Emma comes back into the kitchen. She looks a little more put together, her hair tied back in a loose ponytail and a slouchy cardigan draped around her shoulders; but her face is still scrubbed clean of any make-up, open and unmasked.

“Everything alright?” Regina asks, setting a glass of orange juice down next to Emma’s plate. Emma just shrugs and nods, picking up her fork and ducking her head slightly. “ _Emma._ ”

“Fine,” Emma says quickly, briefly meeting Regina’s eyes with a controlled smile. “What’s this?”

Regina purses her lips for a moment – but Emma’s asking her not to push it, so she doesn’t, and simply pulls up another chair. “Spinach and mushroom omelette. With _wholegrain_ bread and cheese. And orange juice.”

“Impressive,” Emma raises an eyebrow. “It _looks_ like greasy eggs and grilled cheese, but it’s probably hiding more vitamins than I usually get in a month.”

“That’s the idea,” Regina nods, and Emma laughs. “It’s not that you can’t eat what you like, Emma. Just that a few more nutrients are _probably_ a good idea. Unless you _enjoy_ morning sickness.”

Emma wrinkles her nose. “Ugh.”

“I thought not,” Regina tells her, gesturing to her plate. “Now eat.”

Emma just gives her a sunny smile, all soft-eyed and pink-cheeked, and lifts her fork to her mouth. And then she’s closing her eyes, and letting out a low groan as she works her teeth around the forkful of eggs and mushrooms. “Oh, my god.” Regina stares very hard at her own cup of coffee, and doesn’t say a word. “ _Regina._ ”

“Yes,” Regina says, tight-lipped. “I thought you might enjoy that.”

“Enjoy!” Emma looks outraged. “I want this every morning now. Better yet, every meal.”

“I’ll give you the recipe,” Regina says lightly. “Then you can make it however often you want.”

Emma shakes her head vigorously, stray curls of hair flying around her ears. “It won’t be as good.”

“Practise.”

“I’m pregnant, I’ll be too tired…” Emma blinks at her, and Regina narrows her eyes.

“Nice try, Miss Swan,” she says, biting back a smile when Emma scowls at her. “But this was a one-time thing only. To motivate you for a trip to the grocery store.”

“I’ll come shopping!” Emma says eagerly. “I’ll come shopping _every day_ if it means more food.”

“Food that you can prepare yourself, yes, that’s the idea,” Regina tells her, and Emma’s face twists into another disappointed pout. “Besides, being active is supposed to be beneficial. Aren’t all your domestic instincts kicking in yet?”

“I think they skipped the cooking part,” Emma says, laughing. “All I want to do is pick out new cushions and matching sheets.”

“Well, it’s a start.”

Emma laughs, and starts in on her grilled cheese, and for a few minutes they sit together in silence, the stillness only broken by the distant sounds of the shower running.

“This is really good,” Emma says thickly, through half a mouthful of spinach. “I know I said that already, but really, Regina. Thank you.”

Regina shrugs. “You looked so miserable last night,” she says, gesturing vaguely towards the living room – meaning the sofa, meaning finding Emma surrounded by boxes of Kleenex and almost crying in frustration. “Least I could do.”

Emma looks at her, unflinching; Regina looks away, and for a moment they just listen to the sounds of the electric razor buzzing away in the bathroom. Regina hadn’t meant to frame her concern like an accusation, but she realises suddenly that that’s exactly what it must sound like.

“So,” Emma says suddenly, and to Regina’s relief she doesn’t sound any less cheerful than before. “If I start feeling gross again, you’ll come make me more omelettes?”

Regina snorts. “Nice try. Now eat up, you’re seeing Doctor Whale in half an hour.”

“But I’m savouring it,” Emma says, with an ingratiating smile. “Because it’s so _good_.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Miss Swan.”

“Regi _na,_ ” Emma whines, pouting slightly; Regina swallows, and tries to look away. “Please come cook for me.”

“Not sure how your boyfriend would feel about me muscling in on you like that,” Regina half-laughs – and then regrets it, because it’s like a spell has been broken, and all the lightness from just seconds before has been replaced by the real world finding its way back into the kitchen.

“He can learn to cook,” Emma says lightly, looking down at her plate and fastidiously scraping together the last bits of mushroom. “Or learn to deal with it.”

***

 

**iii.**

 

Ruth turns one on a brilliantly clear and sunny Thursday. Mary Margaret and David have booked Granny’s for the occasion, covering the diner in streamers and balloons, and what looks like half the town has been invited. It’s more an excuse to let Mary Margaret’s penchant for themed crafting run wild than a _birthday party,_ really – the birthday girl looks wholly unaffected by the fuss being made for her, and seems content to sit in her high chair with a few pieces of cake while the grownups rotate around her.

Regina and Henry arrive a little late, bearing two trays laden with apple tartlets and brownies. The buffet table is already groaning under the weight of several cakes and desserts, but Mary Margaret still beams at them and starts clearing space for their trays.

“These look delicious, Regina,” she says brightly, eyes warm and smile wide. “Thank you so much for coming!”

“Of course,” Regina says, a little stiffly. Mary Margaret didn’t balk at the apple tartlets, _Snow White_ didn’t even flinch _, what is the world coming to._ “Thank you for the invitation.”

Mary Margaret smiles at her, then turns to chat with Archie; Henry’s already moved off to say hello to Ruthie, his lanky seventeen-year old’s frame standing out among the cluster of robust little toddlers. Regina hovers by the buffet, helping herself to a cup of coffee mostly for something to do with her hands, and watches the organised chaos around them.

David is on baby duty, manning the seat next to Ruthie’s high chair and occasionally attempting to wipe some cake off her cheeks. Nick and Ava are skulking in a corner, plates of potato salad and burgers balanced on their skinny knees; Regina doubts they were officially invited, but they’re seldom far from any occasion that offers free food. Paige hovers near them, seeming at once fascinated and slightly intimidated. It’s been years, now, since they were those two grubby children Emma had picked up and found a home for, but they still operate solely as a pair, keeping everyone else firmly at arm’s length. Roland and Alexandra and a few others are happily immersed at a colouring station, and Tiana’s youngest seems determined to get the dance floor started all by herself. The adults are dotted around in pairs and clusters, eating, drinking, talking; Regina gives Tink a perfunctory nod when she waves her over, and then resolutely turns the other way. It’s a crowded, colourful mess, and at first it’s a little overwhelming. She’s spent so much of the past few weeks either at home, or at Emma’s apartment, that this sudden onslaught of _people_ takes some getting used to.

“Majesty.”

Regina closes her eyes and counts to five before turning around, a painted smile on her lips. “Hook.”

“What, no _Captain_?” he grins at her, leaning against the bar. Regina rolls her eyes.

“I’m not the Queen here, and you’re not a captain of anything,” she says. “When you have a crew working under you, let me know and I’ll reconsider.”

“Well I wouldn’t say it’s a _crew_ working under me, but…” His eyes flicker to the side, the words left hanging with a lewd smile. Regina follows his line of sight, and finds Emma, corralled in by a collection of strollers and baby blankets in what seems to have been designated the under-twos corner. Aurora’s nursing Rose while chatting to Mary Margaret, and Ashley’s twins are rolling around on a blanket playing with each other’s toes. It’s all very sweet, and also faintly nauseating; and then Hook’s words filter through, and the urge to vomit only increases.

“Charming,” Regina says lightly, gritting her teeth. She’s become an expert at avoiding Hook, and deflecting all attempts at a conversation, but she can’t see a way out of this one. “I’m sure Miss Swan appreciates being compared to a half dozen unwashed sailors.”

Hook just laughs, and leans in close enough that Regina can smell the aftershave he’s applied so liberally it’s almost suffocating. “I’d wager I know what Swan does or doesn’t _appreciate_ , wouldn’t you?”

It’s an innocent enough sentence, but he somehow manages to make it sound sleazy. Regina wrinkles her nose, and edges away. “Of course,” she says smoothly. Wanting nothing more than to end this already-overlong conversation, she bites back whatever retort about Emma’s breakfasts and Emma’s trips to pre-natal classes and Emma’s attempts to turn a junk room into a nursery. And, far more pressingly, the nights she’s cooked for Emma and Henry, and they’ve watched TV or looked through college prospectuses or just _laughed,_ until Emma loses some of that perpetually-stressed gleam in her eyes.

“Of course?” Hook prompts, following her across to the gifts table, watching as she places her and Henry’s wrapped box on top of the others. “What, no cutting putdown?”

Regina rounds on him, close to losing what little patience she has left. “Were you expecting one?”

Hook shrugs, the whole motion lazy and fluid; he’s languid and relaxed where she’s sharp lines and edges, and the easy confidence is enough to set her teeth on edge. “You’ve spent enough time with the missus lately,” he says, still just _smirking_ like it’s all one big joke that Regina’s not in on. “Thought you might at the very least have some _handy hints_ for me _._ ”

Regina forces a laugh. “I’m not going to lecture you, Hook.”

“Shame,” Hook counters, and Regina bites back a frustrated groan. “See, when I’m looking for _exciting_ ideas, I always think, _if only I knew how to bake apple pie and paint furniture._ ”

“I’m sorry, I don’t speak sarcasm,” Regina says, voice dripping in it. “You’ll have to speak a little plainer for me, _Captain._ ”

He leans in, and actually _winks;_ Regina’s stomach turns over, and she takes an involuntary step back. “I meant nothing by it, your Majesty,” he smirks. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think there’s some rum outside…”

And then he’s gone, and Regina can breathe a little easier.

*

It’s another half hour before Emma extricates herself from the baby corner, and makes her way over to where Regina is stabbing at a plate of salad and watching Roland paint.

“Regina!”

Regina breathes in, and out again. “Emma.”

“Glad you came,” Emma smiles; Regina smiles back, helpless. “I know it’s ridiculous, a party for a one-year old, but…”

“Miss Blanchard certainly rose to the occasion,” Regina nods, and Emma laughs.

“Yeah.”

There’s a small pause, during which Emma keeps sneaking these side-long glances at Regina that she’s pretty sure are _supposed_ to be subtle. Regina keeps her eyes trained on the dragon Roland’s currently colouring in, and waits for Emma to start whatever conversation she’s already decided they’re going to have.

“What did Killian say to you?”

_There it is._

Regina just shrugs. “Nothing out of the ordinary. Why?”

“It seemed a bit–- “ Emma frowns, pursing her lips together. “Heated?”

“Not at all.” Regina forces a smile. “We were just...chatting.”

“Chatting,” Emma repeats, disbelief colouring her voice. “You and him?”

“We’ve had mutual - acquaintances for half a decade now, I hardly think that’s surprising.”

“Uh huh.” Emma doesn’t sound convinced. “Come on, Regina.”

 _“What_?” Regina snaps, then instantly regrets it; Emma is just looking at her, frustration and reproach mingling in her eyes, and she has to look away. “Sorry.”

Emma sighs, and rubs one hand comfortingly over Regina’s arm. “You can tell me,” she says, after a short pause. “Whatever he said to you, you can tell me.”

Regina almost laughs. No, she really can’t.

“He was just making conversation,” she says lamely, knowing how hollow the words sound even to herself. “About...you, mostly.”

Emma nods like she’s known this all along. “About how much you’ve been helping out?”

_Yes. No. Sort of._

It’s easier than drawing out the interrogation any longer, though, so Regina just nods jerkily. Emma huffs, frustrated, and cocks her head towards the door; without waiting for a response, she sets off, winding her way past the buffet and the bar stools and the parked strollers, and Regina follows. The fresh air comes as a welcome change, and Regina breathes deeply, letting it fill her lungs. Emma is standing a little way away, looking out at the empty road, her face drawn and frustrated.

“I _told_ him,” she says, sounding exasperated. “I told him it’s nothing to do with him. You’re just...helping. Making sure I’m okay.”

“Of course,” Regina says smoothly, coming to stand next to her; and then, because clearly she’s a glutton for punishment or something, she adds, “Why should that be a problem?”

Emma laughs and shrugs, crossing her arms over her sweater and hugging herself tightly. “I guess...he thinks I resent him for not doing all that, or something?”

“Oh.” Regina looks away carefully, letting her hair fall forward so her face is hidden slightly. “Do you?”

“Regina.”

“Well?” Regina prompts, voice brittle. Her ribs feel uncomfortably tight.

“Killian is…” Emma trails off, and Regina waits for her to continue. Finally, she settles on adding, “He’s from a different time, and we – weren’t - he’s never had to deal with diapers or morning sickness or anything, he’s not really - built for it - “

Her voice peters out to nothing, and Regina swallows back the lump of bile lodged in her throat. She looks away, through the window of the diner, to where David is talking to Marian with Ruthie balanced on his hip, his shirt covered in stray bits of cake and cheek smeared with frosting. Emma follows her gaze, and Regina doesn’t miss the way her jaw sets. They don’t speak for a few moments. Regina doesn’t think she could say anything just then, even if Emma wanted her to; an unsettling mixture of fear and anger and pure, unadulterated _loathing_ is bubbling in the pit of her stomach, and she feels her spine straighten automatically in an effort to disperse it.

“Anyway,” Emma says then, voice bright and brittle. “It’ll be different when the baby’s here. When he’ll actually be... able to see it, you know, when it’s real.”

“ _Real,_ ” Regina repeats, glancing at the swell of Emma’s stomach, the way her back is arched and her hands are folded protectively over herself. “I see.”

Emma’s cheeks are pink, her mouth set in a stubborn line. “It’ll be different,” she repeats, like maybe if she says it enough times it’ll come true. “It _will._ ”

Regina closes her eyes. Unbidden, memories of Snow flash through her mind. Snow at eleven, tripping along behind Regina in her first grown-up gown, painstakingly copying how she sits, how she walks, how she eats. Snow at twelve, shaking with the fever, clutching Regina’s hand and begging her not to leave her alone until she falls asleep. Snow at thirteen, eyes wide and fearful at her stained bedsheets, _Father said I was to talk to you._ Snow at fourteen, Snow at fifteen, Snow at sixteen. _Father said...Father sent me...Father told me...Please, Regina._

 “Of course it will,” Regina says, when it becomes clear that Emma’s not about to say anything else; she laughs, tongue heavy in her mouth. “He’ll get used to the diapers when you go back to work, at least.”

At that, Emma looks away, eyes flickering with something too fast for Regina to read; she feels a horrible sort of foreboding settle against her spine. “Emma.”

“I’m actually…” Emma takes a deep breath, seeming to steel herself for whatever it is she’s about to say. “I’m actually hiring my replacement right now.”

“ _Emma,_ ” Regina says again, disbelief colouring her voice. “Why?”

“It’s - he - we don’t want to send her to nursery school right away, okay, not for the first year at least - “

“You’re the _Sheriff._ ” Regina says. “You set your own shifts already. You _have a deputy_.”

Emma nods. “I know that.”

“And,” Regina adds, too scared to be careful. “You have a… A partner who doesn’t work.”

“I _know_ ,” Emma says again, closing her eyes,

Regina’s ribs are aching with the sheer effort of keeping herself under control. She touches Emma’s arm lightly; and then Emma seems to crumble, letting her head drop against Regina’s sIlder, and she can’t...bring herself to move.

“Emma,” she says quietly, not quite knowing what else to say. “You’re not a stay-at-home mother. You’re not a stay-at-home anything.”

Emma hiccups a small laugh and Regina smiles, her hand rubbing small circles into Emma’s back.

“If it’s what you want,” she says eventually, the emphasis not nearly subtle enough forIr liking. “Then that’s...fine.”

“Fine,” Emma repeats blankly, straightening up and staring at Regina. “Right.”

“I just meant - “ Regina cuts herself off, gesturing feebly with her hands. “You should do what makes _you_ happy, Emma.”

This time the emphasis is so far removed from subtle she’s surprised Emma doesn’t call her out on it; but they just stare at each other, the silence stretched taut between them.

“Emma!” Mary Margaret’s voice, high and bright and chipper, makes them both flinch. “ _There_ you are!”

“Hey,” Emma says weakly, giving Regina a small smile before turning to the door. “Yeah, sorry, we were just…”

She trails off, and Mary Margaret’s eyes flicker between her and Regina for a few seconds, slightly unsure. “Everything all right?”

“Fine,” Emma says, forcing a smile. “Come on, let’s go inside.”

***

 

**iv.**

 

Fall seems to arrive in Storybrooke all at once; from one day to the next, the trees are turning red and brown, each leaf glinting like gold in the afternoon sun. There’s a cool wind blowing in off the harbour, the sky is thick with low-hanging clouds, and there are pumpkins lining the yard outside Granny’s.

All of this has Roland very, very excited.

“Hi Regina,” he says toothily, grinning up at her from where he’s barrelled into her middle.

“Hello, dear,” Regina smiles, brushing a hand over his mop of curls and gently freeing herself from the tight hug. “How was school?”

“We made _pie,_ ” Roland tells her, eyes comically wide. “And we _eated_ it.”

“Ate,” Regina says automatically; Henry, next to her, rolls his eyes. “That sounds...fun.”

“There was _ice cream._ ”

“Did you eat that too?” Henry chips in – somewhat unnecessarily, Regina thinks, until:

“Yep,” Roland smiles even wider, the gap between two of his teeth visible from behind his lips. “We _eated_ all the ice cream too.”

Regina stops, and stares down at him, wrinkling her nose; he’s smiling up at her so winningly that he can’t _possibly_ be doing this on purpose. Then he starts giggling proudly, and Henry is fighting hard to keep a straight face, and Regina sighs, and gives up.

“Come along, then,” she tells Roland, reaching her hand out and smiling when he instinctively wraps his fingers around hers. “You look like you could do with a run around to work off some of all that ice cream you _eated._ ”

Roland burbles in delight, and they start towards the park.

“And how was your day?” Regina asks Henry, when they’re near enough the playground for her to let go of Roland’s hand so he can pelt off towards the monkey bars.

Henry shrugs. “Fine.”

Regina waits, patiently, for an expansion that never comes, and finally prompts, “Just _fine,_ or good?”

“Good, I guess,” Henry says, and Regina smiles encouragingly. “We talked about essays and stuff in home room, college stuff.”

“College stuff,” Regina repeats. She thinks back to the brochures, still stacked up on the coffee table. “Such as?”

“Well,” Henry says, talking faster now, his voice animated. “They’re doing the SATs again Wednesday after next, and I want to retake – “

“But you’ve _done_ the SAT,” Regina reminds him. “Remember? You got great scores!”

“No, mom, I got _good_ scores,” he tells her. “ _Great_ scores are what’s going to get me the scholarships. And there’s the ACTs the week after, and I’m switching into apush – ”

“Apush,” Regina interrupts, the word an unfamiliar jumble of syllables on her tongue. “Excuse me?”

“Advanced Placement US History,” Henry repeats patiently. “You get college credit.”

 _College credit._ Regina swallows back the lump in her throat, feeling absurd. “Are you… Sure about that, Henry?” she says slowly, keeping her voice steady. “Taking on so much more work?”

“It’s easy,” Henry shrugs. “I already know all the stuff, it’s just another test. And I’ve figured out my Fridays, and I can study while the kids are asleep, so – “

Regina holds up a hand, and he falls silent. “The kids?”

“Oh… yeah, didn’t I tell you?” Henry says, his voice suddenly a little higher, a little younger-sounding. “I’m helping out at Aurora’s day-care, we get 4th and 5th period off on – “

Regina just blinks at him, reeling. He’s _volunteering._ At a _day-care._ Her teenage son is _looking after children._ He’s looking at her steadily, eyes warm, level with hers, and she’s – she’s looking at a young man.

“That sounds – wonderful, dear,” she says eventually. “But I don’t want your schoolwork suffering, do you hear me? _Or_ your sleep. You sleep little enough as it is.”

Henry winces. “I suppose now is a bad time to tell you I’ve picked up working a few early shifts at Granny’s?”

Regina blanches, and then casts a quick glance over the playground – Roland is hiding behind a slide, face pressed into his quilted jacket to stop the laughter from giving him away while Melody makes a great show of looking behind every tree lining the playground. Deciding he’s occupied for the moment, she tugs Henry over to a bench, and sits him down.

“Now,” she says quietly, sitting down next to Henry and laying a hand over his; a little of the worry melts from his face. “What’s this about, sweetheart?”

Henry wrinkles his nose. “You haven’t called me that in, like, ten years.”

“Please,” Regina snorts. “I’ll be calling you sweetheart well into your fifties. And don’t change the subject, _dear_.”

“Well, it’s, like…” He twists his mouth into a grimace, and Regina bites back the impulse to remind him to _stop saying like all the time._ “I want this scholarship, okay. To the University of Maine?”

“Maine,” Regina repeats, relief washing down her spine. _Maine._ “Okay.”

“They have a really great Anthropology program, and…” Henry hesitates for a second. “And they fund one student to study abroad for a year.”

“A year?” Dimly, Regina’s aware that all she’s doing is parroting back key phrases, but she can’t help it. Her fingers tighten around her son’s hand, and he squeezes back.

“Three semesters, yeah,” he says quietly. “Fall in Florence or Rome, spring in Vienna, summer in St. Petersburg.”

“St. Petersburg,” Regina says faintly, _parroting again._

“It’s _perfect,_ mom,” he says, his voice filled with the kind of enthusiasm he’d once reserved only for a battered leather-bound book filled with stories. “I’d get to see _everything_ for myself, there are trips to London and Dublin, and Paris, and I could go to all the places I need to see, and – “

“Need to see?” Regina interrupts him. “Why need to, Henry?”

“Well, for my thesis,” he tells her, looking faintly puzzled at her confusion.

Regina fights an overwhelming and sudden urge to laugh. Across from her, Roland is valiantly attempting the monkey bars. His face is screwed up in painful concentration, his feet are kicking uselessly a foot above the ground, his jacket’s riding up and leaving round stomach exposed, oddly vulnerable  -

She closes her eyes, mind clouding with memories of Henry at that age, _Henry_ on the monkey bars, _Henry_ holding her hand to cross the street, _Henry_ needing her to open his juice box and help him with the straw –

“Your thesis,” she says quickly. “Of course.”

“I’m sure I told you…” Henry wrinkles his forehead. “Maybe I told Emma. I want to write about fairy tales. Where they come from. All the versions, you know, of the same ones, and where they diverge from the true – I mean, from the _original_ stories.”

“That sounds… Wonderful,” Regina says slowly, and means it. He beams at her.

“It does?” When she nods, Henry presses on. “I just thought it’d be interesting, to write a really academic study about everything. All the stores, all the same characters in all the different traditions. And why those specific versions ended up the _only_ ones, in movies, and stuff – who decided what stories get told now, who decided who’d be the villains, and… Yeah. It sounds cool,” he finishes slightly lamely, grinning through the beginnings of a blush.

Regina nods, blinking rapidly to urge back the tears suddenly forming in her eyes. _Of course it does._

She wants to say so much – wants to say _everything,_ all at once, how much it means to her. How much _he_ means to her, this tall boy all grown up, her _son, her Henry._ Instead, she breathes in sharply, and asks, “And what does Emma think about this?”

“She says it’s cool,” Henry shrugs, and Regina rolls her eyes out of habit. “I think she said something about coming to see me in Italy, but that was before… I mean, who knows if she’d really wanna go all the way over there.”

He looks away, kicking his heels into the dirt, and since when has Henry been _tactfully avoiding subjects around her_? Regina frowns, trying to remember the last time he’d mentioned the baby around her, and finds she can’t remember.

“It might work out,” she tells him smoothly. “You’ll go in your junior year, Emma’s – the baby will be nearly three, that’s old enough to travel!” Henry gives her a sceptical look, and Regina raises her eyebrows. “What?”

“You can’t leave if you’re from the Enchanted Forest, you’d lose all your memories – “

“I know that,” Regina says impatiently. “But Emma’s different, she grew up here, she won’t be – “

“Not _Emma,_ mom,” Henry says, his eyes wide.

Suddenly, Regina feels very, very lost _._ “Well...” she says quietly. “He could fend for himself for a few weeks, surely.”

“Right,” Henry shrugs. “I just don’t think – “

Regina waits. “Henry?” she prompts, nudging him lightly. “What don’t you think?”

“I don’t think he’d want her going, is all,” Henry says blandly. In the deafening silence that follows, he stands up in one fluid motion and brushes his jeans off unnecessarily. “Who’s hungry? Me! I’m hungry, I could go for some cherry pie _right now_ , let’s go to Granny’s and meet your mommy there, shall we, Roland…” and he’s off, walking so quickly away towards the monkey bars that all Regina can do is gape after him, and wonder about what Henry’s seen. What exactly it is she’s _not seeing_ by so completely avoiding Emma’s apartment while Hook is at home.

***

 

**v.**

 

Regina knocks twice on the apartment door, then steps back. Emma’s given her her own spare key now, so she can let herself in and out if she needs to, but she’d rather not suffer through a repeat of walking in on Hook lounging on the sofa and not-so-hastily switching channels.

To her relief, it’s Emma who opens the door - Emma, pink-cheeked and with her hair pulled back into a sloppy braid, wrapped in a loose-knitted cardigan and maternity jeans. She looks happier, more _relaxed,_ than Regina’s seen her in weeks; it’s a little hard to breathe, somehow.

“Hey,” Emma says with a wide smile. “Come in.”

“How are you?” Regina asks, following her inside; the apartment is a little more cluttered-looking than it was the last time she came by and tidied up around Emma, but it’s very… The clutter is very _Emma,_ books piled up on the coffee table, photos and pictures pinned haphazardly to the fridge, a basket of laundry waiting to be folded, boxes of old CDs filling every available surface in the hallway.

“Tired,” Emma replies with a laugh. “But I’m always tired.”

“Working later?”

“On nights till Tuesday!”

“Emma.”

“It’s fine,” Emma says, waving her off. “Just a few more weeks, anyway. I like being busy for now, you know? Not just...sitting here.”

“Of course,” Regina says, biting back any thoughts of _so why are you quitting_ that she knows will only lead to an inevitably long and difficult conversation. “Good thing I brought you a few boxes, then.”

“Oh my god,” Emma’s smile widens, and she turns to Regina with an expectant look. “Hand them over!”

Regina laughs, pulling out the stacks of Tupperware boxes from her bag. “Four dinners,” she tells Emma slightly sternly. “They can be microwaved in the boxes, remember, so you can take them to work.”

“You’re amazing,” Emma says with a soft smile, and Regina turns away sharply, because that’s _Emma._ Emma who believes in others with a ferocity that burns, Emma who has worked and _worked_ to bring back the happy endings… Emma Swan who can’t quite deal with someone else doing something like that for her.

“Don’t worry about it,” Regina mutters, inspecting her fingernails for imaginary chips in the paint. “I know how draining all-nighters can get, and you should be resting _more,_ not less.”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Emma repeats, her tone strong enough for Regina to get the hint. “Really.”

Regina nods, forcing a smile. “Alright.”

Taking a few steps into the apartment, she takes in the freshly-painted doorframes, the shelves filled with neatly-ordered novels and picture books, the matching cushions scattered across the couch and armchair. The last few weeks have been busy.

Emma follows her, sounding chipper. “So, Mrs DIY, what are we working on today?”

“We?” Regina repeats, raising an eyebrow. “Planning on wielding any power tools today, Miss Swan?”

Emma grins at her, dimples appearing in both cheeks. “If you’re lucky.”

The three words hang in the suddenly-stifling air between them, and Regina… Regina doesn’t know where to look. Emma’s eyes are bright with -- with _something,_ anyway -- and she flicks her glance away, focusing on a spot just above Emma’s shoulder. A few loose strands of hair are catching the thin afternoon sunlight filtering in through the high windows, shining like spun gold.

“If you,” Emma starts, her voice low and somehow timid. “If you’re lucky enough to get any help, I mean, those shelves took you _hours_ last week, and - “

“Of course not,” Regina shakes her head, smoothing over the moment with a hand wave and a raised chin. “You have a shift tonight. You’re resting. And no arguments,” she adds; Emma scowls at her, eyes dancing.

“ _Fine.”_

*

Twenty minutes later, a changing station is being assembled in the corner of what is rapidly shaping up to be a fully-functional nursery, complete with wicker baskets for fresh cloths and diapers. Emma’s sitting cross-legged on the carpet behind her, painting a decorative border waiting to be attached, and for a long time they work in companionable silence.

“Would you _stop_ that?”

Emma looks up, the tuneless whistle dying on her lips, and smiles guiltily. “Sorry.”

“We could have music on,” Regina tells her, rolling her eyes. “Then you might keep to the tune. _Any_ tune.”

“Whatever you say, my -” And suddenly Emma’s gabbling like she’s never gabbled before. “My, my, my _majesty -_ “

Regina keeps her back turned, and focuses very hard on hammering a nail into place, and waits for Emma to _laugh,_ to _apologise,_ to say something, _anything,_ to break this strange silence that’s caught them twice already today - but Emma’s silent and unmoving behind her, and Regina feels heat crawl down the back of her neck. Maybe the whistling wasn’t so bad.

“ _Your_ majesty?” she asks, voice deceptively light. Finally, _finally,_ Emma huffs out a laugh.

“I can never keep all the honorary crap straight.”

Regina’s lips are twitching, but she counts a full ten seconds before she puts the hammer down and turns to face Emma. “Take a break?”

“Thought you’d never ask,” Emma grins, flinging down her paintbrush with what would be _reckless abandon_ were it not for the newspaper they’d laid out. “How’s the assembling going?”

“Simple enough,” Regina shrugs, sitting down and taking a gulp of water from her bottle. Emma watches her, and Regina could _almost_ swear she sees her swallow, but -

But she’s here to decorate the _nursery._ The nursery for _Emma’s child._ With _Hook._

Emma’s throat was probably just dry.

“What?” Regina asks defensively, when Emma smiles.

“Nothing,” Emma says innocently, nodding Regina’s hands. “Just, if you hold that any tighter it’s going to explode.”

Regina glances down. Her hand is curled into a claw around the plastic bottle, knuckles white. _Right._ Slowly, she relaxes her fingers, and sets the bottle down.

“So…” she says, wildly casting around for something to add to the conversation. “Looks like you’re pretty much set in here, now.”

“Oh.” Emma sounds surprised, looking around at the nursery-in-progress. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

“Was there anything else you wanted setting up?”

Emma pauses for so long Regina worries she’s said something _wrong._

“No,” Emma says eventually, her tone light and airy. “No I can’t think of anything else.” She pauses for a fraction of a beat, meeting Regina’s eyes for a heartbeat before flitting away again. “Guess you’ll have your weekends back.”

“I was thinking…” Regina says slowly; the words are heavy on her tongue. “I need to sort through some boxes in the basement, but how would you like some baby clothes?”

“You mean - “ Emma stops herself, and takes an audible in-breath. “Henry’s?”

Regina forces herself not to look away. “I could bring them over next Saturday. We’ll look through them, see which you’d like to have, see what might need alterations… I’ve been meaning to get a sewing machine. It could,” she adds, emphasis lacing every syllable. “Take a while.”

Emma just looks at her, and smiles, and smiles.

*

Regina stands back, exhausted, examining her handiwork. Emma’s painting a swirl of yellow onto the decorative blue border still waiting to be attached; when she hears Regina’s satisfied sigh, she looks up.

“Oh, it looks great!”

“I’m glad,” Regina says shortly; she looks away when she catches confusion bloom across Emma’s features, feeling ridiculous. For a moment, it had been just her, looking at this… This crib, that she’s built, with Emma, Emma who’s expecting a baby, and it’s…

_Not healthy._

The thought is replaced, just as quickly, with a new one: she doesn’t care.

Smile carefully in place, Regina turns around to face Emma.

Emma, who has -

Opened a closet to dig out the mattress they’d bought to fit the crib, and is staring at -

“Emma,” Regina breathes, walking over and looking over her shoulder and seeing the boxes.

The toy box, with alphabet letters stamped across the lid. A blue letter M, a red letter I, a green letter L, a red letter A, an orange letter H.

Emma’s hand shakes as she reaches out to lift the lid off.

Slowly, Regina slides her hand down Emma’s arm, her fingers stroking along her wrist and feeling the jumping pulse, like a trapped bird’s. Emma shakes her head mutely, pulling her hand away and slowly, mechanically, starting to dig through the box.

There are embroidered dresses, embroidered pillow cases, a teddy with an embroidered name tag, bibs in various primary colours, several sets of miniature washcloths and towels, all embroidered with the same name.

_Milah….Milah….Milah…_

“Emma,” Regina says. Emma ignores her, taking out each individual washcloth and staring at it before throwing it somewhere over her shoulder. “ _Emma._ ”

Emma doesn’t stop; doesn’t look up; doesn’t even pause in her movements, fast and impersonal and frantic -

Regina curls her hand around Emma’s wrist, lightly. “ _Emma._ ”

“I - “ When she looks up, her eyes are wide and panicked and darting everywhere, taking in the carnage of discovered trinkets, _hidden_ trinkets all embroidered with that same, damning, name. “I didn’t - “

“I know.”

“We hadn’t talked about - “

“I know.”

“He just - “

“I know,” Regina says, her voice breaking. Emma stares at her for a second longer, and then slumps, her face crumpling. “ _Emma._ ”

“No,” Emma says mechanically, taking a step back. “No, no, it’s okay, I’m okay, it’s - “

“No it’s _not - ”_ Regina starts, outraged, but a look from Emma cuts her off.

“He lost Milah, he misses her, it’s…” she pauses, wrestling with the justification she’s about to make. “It’s a good name.”

“Emma.”

Emma shrugs on autopilot. “It’s pretty,” she says, her voice horribly blank of emotion. “Millie for short. Or Mia.”

“Emma, you can’t be serious.”

“I didn’t have a name in mind,” Emma says fluidly, backing away another step. “And he does, so…”

“So _what,_ Emma?”

“So it’s _fine_.”

Regina wants to scream; wants to punch something; wants to punch Captain _fucking_ Hook.

“I don’t - “ Emma’s shaking her head now, staring around at the mess. “I don’t know.”

“Don’t know what?” Regina takes a step forwards; Emma takes a step back.

“It’s fine,” she repeats, and then arranges her face into a wide, pained, smile.  “Listen, I’ll sort this out. Thanks for your help with the crib - “

“Emma.”

Emma continues as if uninterrupted. “I’ll see you soon, okay, I better get a shower before work, and I want to get something to eat - “

“Em - “

 _“Please stop saying that_.” Regina falls silent, the second syllable of Emma’s name unsaid against her lips. Emma just shakes her head jerkily, and then jerks her head towards the door. “You’ll… I’ll talk to you later.”

Regina stares at her for a moment longer, Emma holding her gaze with a defiant, wounded pride. “Okay,” she says eventually, calmly. She picks up her purse, and takes a few small steps past Emma to get to the hallway. “Okay.”

She’s almost at the front door when there are padded footsteps, running up behind her -

Emma tugs her around by the elbow, breathless. “I didn’t want -” she gulps back her words. “I don’t want anyone else here.”

Regina just stares at the place where Emma’s fingers are digging into her sweater, and doesn’t say a word.

Emma’s face is glowing - no, _burning,_ something hiding behind her eyes and making Regina’s ribs squeeze tight.

“I’m not kicking you out, I just – I need – on my own, right now, just right now,” she manages, stumbling over the words, and Regina feels her face soften into a smile without quite willing it to happen. “I’m not - I’m glad I didn’t find those on my own,” Emma tries again, frowning with concentration but too headstrong to admit to being tongue-tied, and Regina is reminded forcibly of Henry trying to tell her about the anthropology major. _God, they’re so alike._

“I know,” she murmurs, her voice almost unrecognisably soft to her own ears, trying to convey comprehension of what Emma is willing her to understand.

“Okay, good,” Emma nods, fiercely, and then steps back, chin lifted with a kind of stubborn defiance. “Uh. Thank you.”

They stare at each other for a heartbeat longer, Regina swaying on the brink of doing something _altogether stupid_ and Emma staring at her like she’s daring her to do it -

Regina pulls her arm away, and nods shakily, and pulls the door shut behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAHAHAHA SEE YOU NEXT TIME, FOLKS. It won't be three months again. (Also I am on twitter @bringyouhometoo where there is currently a lot of yelling about 5.05 and how dumb everything is. Come say hi!)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, coming to you technically THREE TIMES faster than the previous update! By that logic, the next chapter will be out in about two days, and by the time you get to the last chapter I'll write the epilogue before you're even done reading. That's how this works, right?
> 
> Thanks a billion to Spark and Zohra for the tireless cheerleading and proofreading, even after weeks of intertia on my part! And thank you so much to everyone who left a comment on Chapter 2 after SUCH a long break, it means a lot to me (and I'm so sorry for the rambling replies you just got to those comments, it's very late and I've written so many words today).

 

**i.**

“It’s Regina, just calling about tomorrow… If you still want me to bring over the baby clothes, I’ve found a few blankets and toys as well that you’d be welcome to, Henry agrees...of course, Henry’s seeing you on Sunday. Oh, he says to say hello and he’s sorry studying is cutting into your time together… If you’re busy tomorrow I can drop of a few boxes whenever, just…let me know.”

Regina twists a strand of hair around one finger, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. The phone just waits, silent and expectant, and she adds slightly self-consciously, “Oh. This is a message for Emma. Alright, I’ll talk you you later,” and hangs up.

Six days.

It’s been six days since she’s seen Emma. Six days of radio silence, six days of waiting for Emma to call her again, six days of worrying. And nothing.

Which is - Regina’s not going to pretend that she’s _fine_ about it, that it doesn’t make her stomach twist itself with fear and anger and not a little _loathing_ directed at the pirate. But Emma asked her to let her have her space, and so she’s… Leaving a voicemail.

Even _Henry’s_ barely seen her, although that might just be his own schedule getting in the way of family time; between pouring coffees and serving pancakes for three hours twice a week, staying after school most days for an extra study class, and taking care of a dozen squabbling infant princes and princesses this afternoon, he’s busier than Regina’s ever seen him. And that’s before she even counts the _hours_ she’s sure he spends on his applications and assignments when he’s home.

Every morning, it seems, he’s learned something new to tell her about, bursting with excitement and enthusiasm. The function of fairy tales in medieval festivals; the spread of the Cinderella narrative from France to the rest of Europe and, eventually, the fledgling United States; the conflict between existing cultural folklore or myth and the intruding Westernised fairy tales… And all this before he’s even _started college._

Regina tries hard to remember dredging up any kind of enthusiasm for her studies at seventeen, and finds she can’t recall a single book that lit this kind of burning curiosity, this _need_ to know more _, to know everything -_ not until she’d opened her mother’s book of spells, anyway -

But at seventeen, books and studies had been her mother’s world, her mother’s imposed structure on her day. _Diplomacy. Etiquette. Dressmaking. Courtly politics._ Lessons to be endured, to be sat through with fidgeting limbs and longing looks out into the sunshine, the fields and stables.

Regina’s pouring herself another orange juice when two memories crash into her all at once.

Sitting in her bedroom with her father, no more eight or nine years old, chin resting on his shoulder, lips forming soundless syllables while he reads to her from his own books in his slow, sonorous voice. She’d squirmed excitedly whenever he’d asked her to take over, and always tripped over her words in her haste to find out what happened next - he’d stop her, with a laugh and a kiss pressed to her hair. _Slow down, mija. Again._

And then, rocking a teething Henry in her arms, humming a tuneless song that she eventually recognises as one her father used to teach her the vowel sounds. Pressing Henry to her chest, whispering the words she can still cobble together into his ear, the odd snatches of phrases that decades of reprimands and forgetting haven’t stolen from her. _Arroz con leche, Henry, let’s see if we can make that, okay, mijo?_ Henry gurgling, grizzling, and she cooks rice pudding for him that evening while he watches her from his car seat propped on the kitchen counter - Regina frowning in concentration over the recipe she’d dredged up on the internet and absentmindedly playing with his feet.

_Where did that come from?_

There’s an old hurt sitting against Regina’s ribs, tender and scrubbed raw after years of pushing it to one side - and 17 years of it _not mattering,_ 17 years of having _Henry_ , and it’s one choice she’s never regretted, not _really,_ not _rationally,_ but -

She wishes… She _wants_ so much, and Regina isn’t naive enough to not know exactly _why_ all these unbidden thoughts of _motherhood_ have come back _now._ Emma’s three blocks and half a world away, in an apartment filled with nursery furniture and pregnancy books and _Hook,_ and she hasn’t called in a _week,_ and Regina -

_Honestly, Regina, you need to get a hold of yourself. That’s no way to behave with the king’s daughter, you want him to see you how good you are with her -_

Regina’s going to be fine. She’s going to finish her coffee, and take a long hot bath, and get on with her day. Maybe she’ll meet Henry after his day-care shift, and they’ll go shopping for Thanksgiving dinner; maybe they’ll rent some movies to watch tonight, after homework and chores; maybe they’ll plan a hike in the woods for the weekend. She’s fine. She’s here, and she’s fine.

And then the doorbell rings, and pretty much the _last_ person Regina wants to see right now is standing on her porch.

“Regina,” Mary Margaret says, her voice as ever that copyrighted combination of repressed judgement and chipperness. “Can I speak with you?”

Regina’s thoughts fly, fleetingly, to slamming the door shut and casting a holding spell, just _leave Snow White, and run, and run, and run -_

“Of course,” she says, and opens the door a little wider. “Come in.”

Mary Margaret follows her inside, face scrunched up with anxiety, and Regina smooths her hands down her skirt. She’s just antsy today. There’s no need to take it out on the first person to come by her house, even if that person just _happens_ to be eyeing her with bright, suspicious eyes, like she’s still struggling to fit it all together, the girl on the horse and the step-mother with the cold, cold eyes.

“Tea?”

“No thank you,” Mary Margaret says, her voice high and thin. “Is now a good time to talk?”

Regina nods, and indicates the couch in the living room. “Please, sit.”

They sit. Regina watches Mary Margaret carefully - watches the way she’s tapping her heels together anxiously, watches the rapid play of emotions across her face, watches the way her eyes are darting all over the room but never stopping to meet Regina’s gaze - and when Mary Margaret finally opens her mouth, what she says hardly comes as a surprise.

“I don’t know if I should be telling you this,” she says, and Regina feels her jaw set. _Then don’t. For god’s sake._ “But I… I don’t think I should keep this from - “

“If you’re here to spill someone else’s secret,” Regina cuts in, not missing the way Mary Margaret’s shoulders tense slightly. “I’d advise you...not to.”

“There’s no _secret_ ,” Mary Margaret says unconvincingly. “It’s - I mean - it’s about Henry.”

Regina’s insides turn to ice.

“Henry?” When Mary Margaret nods, Regina presses her lips tightly together and waits. And waits. “...What about him?”

Mary Margaret looks very pale - even paler than usual, which really is saying something - and Regina has to fold her hands tightly together to stop herself from reaching out and shaking some clarity out of her. She reminds herself that Mary Margaret came to _her_ ; however long it takes, she’s going to talk eventually.

Still. There’s nothing stopping Regina from hurrying her along. Just a little.

“Miss Blanchard,” she says slowly. “If you have any concerns about _my son,_ by all means. I’m all ears.”

“Nolan,” Mary Margaret mumbles, and Regina frowns.

“Excuse me?”

“It’s Nolan,” Mary Margaret repeats, staring down into her lip and letting a tiny smile show. “Not... officially, we haven’t - signed anything, but we’re… David and I, I mean, we’re still married - again.”

Regina rolls her eyes. “The exact details of how you’re playing happy families with your Prince Charming really isn’t a concern of mine,” she says drily. “Mrs Nolan, then. Why are you here?”

“Nothing,” Mary Margaret says, her voice high and thin. “Excuse me, I shouldn’t have bothered you with this - “ She’s standing up, brushing down her skirt unnecessarily, smiling widely and giving Regina’s arm an unconvincing pat. “It was nice to see you, Regina - ”

“Wait,” Regina says quickly, reaching out and closing her hand around Mary Margaret’s wrist. For a moment, they just stare at each other. Mary Margaret seems to grow younger the longer Regina looks at her, and she can feel her own spine straightening, chin lifting. There was a time when she could have loved her, the ten-year old with a heart so open and so unburdened that to mistrust a mother’s love would never, _ever,_ have occurred to her - “Snow. Tell me why you’ve come.”

Mary Margaret smiles at her - a little shaky, a little fragile, but a real smile nonetheless. “Henry’s fine,” she says reassuringly. “He is, I swear.”

“Alright,” Regina says, a little impatient; she drops Mary Margaret’s hand and crosses her arms, feeling like she’s walked into some kind of horrible trap, like now Mary Margaret will start coming over for _tea,_ all because of one momentary lapse of judgement. “Then what is it?”

“It’s about…” Mary Margaret breaks off delicately, and sits back down; clenching her jaw slightly, Regina follows suit. “Where he’ll stay. Henry, I mean, will he stay here?”

Well. _That’s_ not quite what Regina thought Mary Margaret was here to discuss. “Of course he will,” she says slowly, mystified. “Where else would he - ”

Mary Margaret senses her realisation - can probably read it on her face - and winces in sympathy. “That’s great,” she says quickly. “That’s what I thought - I mean, I assumed - yes, that makes sense, of course - ”

“What’s he done?”

“I - ” Mary Margaret stops mid-flow, caught off-guard. “Henry? Nothing -”

“ _Not_ Henry,” Regina presses out, and then has to cut herself off from saying anything more.

Mary Margaret’s eyes widen with understanding, and she nods - a tiny, almost negligible movement, but it’s enough for Regina to catch her meaning. So _this_ is the conversation they’re having, really.

“Have you spoken to Emma?” Mary Margaret asks, apparently changing tack slightly.

Regina pauses, weighing her next words on her tongue. “Not...in a week or so,” she says slowly; unsure of how much Emma might have told her mother, about the last time she went over. “Why?”

“I think,” Mary Margaret says, taking a deep breath. “I think she could use a friend.”

 _Friend._ Regina almost wants to laugh, at the absurdity of it; the three of them and the web they’ve spun between each other, shifting and rearranging their bearings countless times and somehow ending up _here._

“What makes you say that?” she asks eventually, and then rephrases. “And what has any of it got to do with Henry?”

“I don’t know,” Mary Margaret admits, with a small hiccup. “But he’s got his room here, and his room with Emma, and it’s…”

“It’s fine,” Regina interrupts her, tasting acid at the back of her throat. “We work _fine,_ Mary Margaret, but his _home_ is here.”

“Of course it is,” Mary Margaret says quickly. “His home’s with you, you’re his mother, I didn’t mean to imply - ”

“I know,” Regina says, sighing. She softens her voice a little, not wanting to scare Mary Margaret away now. “Please, carry on.”

“It’s more that - “ Mary Margaret hesitates, and then Regina can almost _see_ the moment she decides to push further. “Will he still be going to Emma?”

“That’s…” Not what Regina was expecting.

“She loves him so much,” Mary Margaret says, sounding suddenly desperate - for what, Regina isn’t sure. Understanding? Cooperation? _What?_ “And she’d never want him to stop coming over for the weekend, would she?”

“I don’t…” Regina stops, and shakes her head. “No.” _No,_ regardless of past or current anger between them, Emma has _never_ cooled towards Henry, _would never_ risk allowing any distance to creep between the two of them, not unless... “No, never.”

“That’s what I thought,” Mary Margaret nods. “And then - ”

“Hook,” Regina says, her tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth but some kind of weight rolling off her spine; the name drops into the space between them, the air charged with some kind of understanding.

“I don’t even know what I’m afraid of,” Mary Margaret admits with a shaky laugh. “Just - this feeling.”

Regina almost wants to laugh with her. _No shit._ “This...feeling.”

“We went over for dinner,” Mary Margaret says - and then, finally, the words spill out, a rushed waterfall of held-back confusion and fear. “David and I, we had Ruby staying with the kids - and it was a lovely evening, really nice. I’d brought over a few of Ruthie’s baby things, and we went through those, and it was just… ” she trails off.

Regina’s about to interrupt the silence when Mary Margaret takes a deep breath, apparently steeling herself, and carries on. “Later, you know, after dinner, Killian got talking about all these plans he had, taking Emma and the little one out on the ship next summer, and then how this was their last Christmas just the two of them - how next year it’d all be about the baby, and that’s - it’s _true,_ you know, it makes _sense,_ but there was something _wrong,_ and it wasn’t till later that I realised he hadn’t mentioned Henry once - all his _plans_ \- ”

She’s stumbling over her words now, fear and worry and something not unlike _anger_ creeping into her voice. “Christmas for the _two of them,_ I just didn’t see how Henry was fitting into those - and maybe that’s a silly thing to worry about, you know, Henry’s not a little child anymore, and he’s not Killian’s son anyway, of course there’s a difference, I just… ”

Mary Margaret takes a deep breath. “Emma was so _quiet,_ ” she says, her voice trembling like she’s in pain. “Have you noticed that? I didn’t for months, you know, it’s not like she just stopped talking from one day to the next, but she’s _so quiet_ , and I don’t… Regina?”

Regina closes her eyes briefly, and forces herself to breathe in and out calmly. “Yes?”

“Is she… Is Emma happy?”

Regina swallows, and stares into her lap. “I think…” she says slowly, carefully; because Mary Margaret deserves a real answer, infuriating blindness be damned, she’s here now and she wants to know. “I think she’s spent a long time _trying_ to be happy.”

“But that’s not - ” Mary Margaret blinks, confusion and innocence written all over her face, and Regina’s never been more reminded of ten-year old Snow more - “That’s not how happiness _works._ You shouldn’t have to _try._ ”

Regina thinks back to those strange, tense months of her-and-Robin - how it had sometimes felt like an elaborate ruse, a children’s play, _see mommy and daddy in the kitchen, see the two boys eating pancakes, now see the happy family being happy._  How the _effort_ of it had clung to her bones like clay, the conviction that this was what happiness _was,_ and if she couldn’t feel it yet then she’d just have to _try harder -_

And then Regina thinks about the first, terrifying drive home from Boston with Henry strapped into a car seat next to her, how she’d panicked every time another car so much as tried to overtake her a little too closely - this crushing fear that hadn’t _really_ let off until he was much older, an overwhelming need to protect, to keep safe, to shield. And underneath that, stubbornly just _there_ through every grizzling night and every collicky morning...her ribs had constantly felt like they were being pushed gently outwards, like every breath she took was just another excuse to make room for _more_ of this feeling. The way he’d wormed his way into every fibre of her being within days, within hours, within _minutes;_ the way she had almost _felt_ it when he’d first smiled at her, like a physical swelling against her ribcage. Waking up every single morning - woken more often than not by his fussing, demanding attention, demanding her love - getting up, and _daring_ her day to be anything less than spectacular.

“No,” she says finally, meeting Mary Margaret’s eyes and trying to smile. “No, you shouldn’t have to try.”

“Then why doesn’t Emma - ” Mary Margaret practically stamps her foot in frustration, _still not understanding._ “Why is she doing this?”

Regina resists the urge to rub a weary hand over her face, and tries to remind herself that this...inexperience isn’t Mary Margaret’s _fault._

“Because she’s making everyone happy,” she says eventually - maybe just hearing it put _plainly_ will be enough. “Or she’s - trying to make everyone else happy.”

“But that’s - oh my god,” Mary Margaret claps her hands to her mouth, looking horrified. “Oh my god, does she think _I_ want this for her?”

“Don’t you?” Regina asks, and then immediately feels bad; Mary Margaret looks close to tears.

“I want her to be _happy,_ Regina,” she whispers, looking miserable. “She’s my _daughter._ ”

“She’s the Saviour,” Regina says relentlessly. “She brought back the happy endings for everyone.”

At that, Mary Margaret really does start crying, small, hiccuping sobs like she’s just had her entire worldview shifted; Regina leans forwards, and grips her hand lightly. For a while, they just sit there, the air around them drained and exhausted.

“No,” Mary Margaret says eventually, her voice quiet. She pulls her hand away and stands up quickly; her cheeks are flushed and her eyes bright with tears, but she looks…stronger, somehow. When Regina stands up and faces her, she feels for the first time that she’s facing the princess who won back her kingdom on horseback. “No, I should go, I have to...think about what to do.”

“Careful,” Regina warns her. “Don’t - do anything stupid.”

“I know,” Mary Margaret smiles, brittle. “It’s not my - I want her to decide whatever _she_ wants.”

Regina nods, and lets out a slow, deliberately even breath. It’s only now, with this strange sense of _alliance_ hanging between them, that the idea starts to roll over her. Whatever Emma _decides…_ It takes her a moment to place the wild, fluttering sensation in her chest. Hope. And that’s not - something she can afford to be feeling. Not yet - not _ever,_ she reminds herself sharply, _god damn it -_

“Will you talk to her?” Mary Margaret asks her, and Regina barely stops herself from laughing out loud. “I know it’s not…an easy thing, but I think - just, if she just has someone to _talk to_ , maybe…”

“I’ll do what I can,” Regina promises, and knows in that instant that she means it, even if it means biting back this new and dangerous _hoping_ until she can make it go away; knows that the alternative has never been an option.

*******

**ii.**

 

And so it happens that, two days later, Regina finds herself walking into the police station, a paper bag from Granny’s in one hand and her heart in her throat.

Emma’s at the computer when Regina knocks on her office door; she looks up, and smiles so instantly, so helplessly, that it can’t be entirely conscious - and just as quickly, she looks away again, frowning at her computer screen, two bright red spots appearing high on her cheekbones.

“Hi,” she says briefly, tapping at her keyboard with vicious efficiency. “What’s up?”

Regina holds up the paper bag. “Snack?”

Emma pauses for a moment, hands frozen over her keyboard, and then resumes typing with increased intensity. “Thanks, but I’m way behind on this.”

“Oh?” Regina takes a few, slow steps into the room. “What are you working on?”

“Annual expenses,” Emma mutters shortly, apparently oblivious to Regina leaning over the back of her chair. “Due before the break.”

“Due in the Mayor’s office,” Regina says, smirking a little when Emma slumps. “And I have it on good authority that the Mayor’s just extended your deadline.”

“Regina…”

“Take a break, Emma,” Regina says, pulling away from the overwhelming _closeness_ and looking Emma squarely in the eye. “I even brought you one of those awful bear claws.”

Emma sighs, a reluctant smile curling around her lips. “I guess I can make time for a bear claw,” she concedes, tilting her head with an amused look in her eyes when Regina wrinkles her nose. “You can go sit all the way over there if you want, but pastry isn’t contagious, you know.”

“Hilarious,” Regina rolls her eyes, and pulls up a chair to Emma’s desk. “I think I’ll be fine.”

“Very brave,” Emma smiles, and opens the bag. “Oh my god, a turnover too? You’re not trying to kill me, are you?”

Regina’s response sticks in her throat; she stares hard at her own hands, and when she looks up Emma is watching her, mirth dancing in her eyes. “Now who’s being superstitious,” she settles on finally, and feels her shoulders relax when Emma lets out a short laugh.

“Guess those days are behind us,” she grins, and Regina has to bite her lips to stop herself from smiling back too widely. “Thanks. Really.”

“No problem,” Regina manages, twisting her hands together in her lap and falling silent. Emma gives her a funny, half-confused look - she’s halfway through one of the pastries already, a few sugar crystals sticking to the corners of her mouth, and she’s watching Regina like she wants her to say… _What, Emma? Tell me._

“You’re quiet,” Emma notes, frowning a little bit and licking a finger absentmindedly. Regina swallows, looks down and away, and Emma sighs. “Regina.”

“I came to see how you were,” Regina says slowly, carefully, directing her words at her own fingernails. “You said you wanted to be left alone, I know, but...”

“I’m fine, Regina.”

“Okay,” she nods, feeling strangely - stuck. “That’s good. And everything with…with Killian?”

“He’s fine,” Emma says shortly, and then flushes; she knows that’s not what Regina was asking. “Thanks.”

“Have you…” Regina trails off. Thinks about Mary Margaret, the promise she’d made to at least _talk._ Takes a deep breath, and starts again. “Talked about the - things - at all?”

Emma puts down her turnover slowly, frowning at Regina’s change of tone. “I told you, it’s fine,” she says,  her fingers curling around the ends of her sleeves, her mouth twisting itself into an unhappy line. “I never had a name in mind, anyway, so…”

“I see,” Regina nods, and chooses her next words very carefully. “He got all of that without asking you, didn’t he?”

Emma’s hunched in on herself, her shoulders tense. “Yeah.”

“If I remember right, you said - ” Regina hesitates at the look of open resentment on Emma’s face, but she pushes on. “If it had all been your plan, you wouldn’t even know the sex of the baby yet. And here you are with embroidered rompers and dresses all picked out for you.”

“What’s your point, Regina?” Emma asks her a little impatiently, like she’s heard it all before. _Good._ Maybe she’s been telling herself this already.

“I could see why that might be upsetting,” Regina settles on after a short pause. “And I wanted to check you were doing okay.”

“Yeah,” Emma says shortly; when she sees Regina’s frown, she sighs, her voice softening a little. “Thanks. I know you’re just…looking out for me, but I told you, I don’t need a babysitter.”

“How about a friend?” Regina asks, before she can stop herself; Emma meets her gaze with something altogether unreadable hiding behind her eyes, and Regina feels the ground sway under her feet. She grips the sides of her chair, wills herself to be cautious, to be careful. “I only meant…it’s okay for things not to be perfect all the time. It’s okay to talk about it.”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Emma insists. “There’s nothing to talk about, we - I mean - look, Killian had the name picked out, and it’s done now, I’m not gonna start some long discussion over it - ”

“Don’t you _talk_ to him?” The words are out of Regina’s mouth before she can stop them, and Emma flushes angrily.

“Of course we _talk._ ”

“You know what I mean,” Regina says slowly, trying to find a calmer way around this. “You’re hardly the two _most_ alike people I’ve ever seen,” - understatement of the century, and she knows Emma knows it - “So it’s only natural if you’re disagreeing over little things, or - or big things, too - and just...talking them out.”

Emma shakes her head numbly. “We don’t really fight,” she says quietly, steadily; back on safer ground, maybe. “So I’m not starting one now over this.”

“Emma,” Regina says, her voice sounding too loud in the small office - she hears the way Emma’s name catches in her throat, and looks up to find Emma resolutely staring at her feet. “Emma, it doesn’t have to be a big fight, just tell him you’re unhappy about - ”

“Doesn’t it?” Emma cuts her off, her voice brittle. Regina sighs. “You think _hey, Killian, I found this shit you’ve been hiding with our baby’s name on it, want to explain that to me,_ doesn’t sound like the start of a fight?”

Regina winces; Emma’s imitation of her own voice had been sharp and vicious, and now she’s visibly shaking from the effort it’s taking her to contain it.

“Maybe it does,” she concedes. “Maybe you need to have that fight.”

“No.”

“Emma…”

“ _No,_ Regina, we’re not.”

“So, what?” Regina snaps; she knows she shouldn’t rise to Emma’s anger, knows it and can’t help it. “You’re just going to bite your tongue every time he does something stupid? Avoid every last fight, sit waiting with his dinner ready while he’s out doing god knows what, give him a _big smile_ when he comes home drunk and doesn’t even want to kiss his kid - his daughter, the one you’re looking after every day - goodnight?”

“You’re being unfair,” Emma says slowly; but she’s not shouting at Regina, which Regina - breathing heavily, gripping her fingers tightly into fists - thinks is already more than she deserves after that outburst.

“Sorry,” she says quietly, “I just...worry.”

“Why?” Emma asks quietly - so quietly that Regina hardly catches it at first. She’s looking at her with the same kind of burning intensity she’d had in her eyes the last time they talked - those strange, hypnotic few moments where all kinds of reckless _possibilities_ had been stretched taut between them - “Why do you worry?”

Regina lets out a short, shallow breath. _Why, indeed._

“It’s easy,” she says eventually; confusion flashes through Emma’s eyes, and she shakes her head. “Not worrying, I meant…it’s easy, to tie yourself down, you make compromises, you think, _I’ll go this far,_ and then _a little further_ and then suddenly you’re...somewhere you never thought you’d end up.”

“Right…” Emma says doubtfully. “And what’s that got to do with - ”

“But you’re not tied down,” Regina says quickly, the words rushing out of her now; she’s said so much, she may as well ruin every hope she had of this being a _subtle_ conversation. “You’re _not,_ Emma, you get to demand things and you don’t have to back down just because it’s easier, or because you’re...scared, or -”

“That’s actually,” Emma cuts her off quietly, but so decisively that Regina feels the words dry in her throat. “None of your business.”

She closes her eyes. “Emma, please just - ”

“ _No,_ Regina!” Emma cuts her off. “You thought, what, you could come in here and tell me I’m _not tied down_ and I’d… what? Walk out? Leave town, start over somewhere, just drive away?” Emma laughs hollowly, a horrible, humourless sound.

“Because I’m good at that, right? That’s my _thing,_ selfish, reckless, flighty Emma Swan, never tied down, never settled, easy to persuade to leave, easy to mess with, can’t ever make something work because she hasn’t got any roots, and - _you can’t do that,_ Regina, you can’t come in here and tell me I’m scared, it’s not...it’s not…”

She’s out of words; she just slumps back in her office chair, and hugs her arms tightly around her swelling bump, making soft gulping noises like she’s halfway between trying to comfort the baby and bursting into tears.

Regina watches her, numb with shock. Whatever she’d expected, it wasn’t...that.

“I never thought you’d just leave,” she says, after a silence that drags on for so long she’s half-wondering if Emma even remembers that she’s there. “You’re not...any of those things, Emma. You have so many people who love you here, you’d never just leave, and we - no one would want you to. Your parents. _Henry_.”

“So you...I mean, _Henry,”_ Emma emphasises, giving Regina a sharp look that Regina blankly ignores because...the alternative is unthinkable, “Want me to make it all work, right? Have my roots here. My family.”

“You _have_ your family here,” Regina says without thinking, standing up before she’s quite aware of doing so. “Whatever you do, however you want to…” she shakes her head numbly. “You won’t be on your own.”

Emma’s standing too, and they’re staring at each other over the desk, the silence filled with half-voiced meanings. “And if there’s nothing that makes everyone happy?”

“Then you do whatever makes _you_ happy, Emma,” Regina says, the frustration raising her voice and tightening her shoulders. “And anyone worth even - anyone worth even a _second_ of your time will _understand_.”

Emma takes a deep, shuddering breath, her chest heaving with the effort of it - Regina sways towards her without quite meaning to, it’s a movement that happens _to_ her, like gravity - Emma breathes in too quickly, and takes two stumbling steps away, half-turning her back on Regina.

“What if he doesn’t?” she half-whispers, and _that’s -_ right.

Regina shakes her head, tries to clear her thoughts. “Anyone worth _anything_ will,” she repeats flatly. “Emma.”

Emma shakes her head jerkily, hunching her shoulders. “No,” she says quietly. “No, no, I’m okay, I don’t - I’m fine - ”

“ _Emma,_ ” Regina says again; she wants to reach out to touch her shoulder, but the desk’s in the way, and anyway she’s not sure Emma wouldn’t just bolt - “Emma, you don’t owe him _anything_ , you - you don’t owe _anyone_ anything.”

“Regina, please just…” Regina hears, rather than sees, the moment Emma starts to cry. Her voice breaks, her breathing shakes and shudders, and she keeps her face resolutely turned away. “Not everything all at once, okay, just let me…”

“Alright,” Regina says immediately, taking a few conciliatory steps backwards and half-raising her hands. “Of course.”

Emma huffs out a shaky laugh. “Thanks.”

“Should I…” _go,_ she should ask; but before the words are fully formed against her lips, Emma cuts her off.

“No.”

“...Right.”

Emma turns back around then, her eyes wide and uncertain, her movements slow and sluggish, like she’s moving through water as she finds her chair again and carefully sits back down; after a moment, Regina follows suit, and then they’re just...staring at each other. Emma is almost completely still, while Regina has never felt more restless; she’s tapping the fingernails of one hand against the palm of the other, her knees are shaking slightly, and she keeps having to swallow. _What the hell just happened?_

After what feels like hours but can’t be more than a few minutes, Emma’s phone starts buzzing, startling them both out of... _whatever_ that look had been. Regina glances at it on the desk - and sees Hook’s face flashing up on the screen.

“I’ll go,” she says quickly, just as Emma looks up at her and starts to speak.

“Regina, I...” she shakes her head, and gestures helplessly at the phone.

“I’ll go,” Regina repeats, a little gentler. “I shouldn’t have…said all that.”

“No,” Emma nods, eyes flicking quickly to meet Regina’s and then darting away again. “You shouldn’t have.”

Regina swallows back a nervous laugh, and stands up. “Right. I’ll leave you to it.”

Emma just nods silently, looking up at her, and Regina bites back whatever else she might have said - anything else she could possibly add to this _disaster -_ and pulls her coat tighter across her chest, and hurries outside.

“Killian, hi…”

Regina’s breaking into a run before she’s even fully out of the building; there’s a sick hammering against her ribs, and she can feel her lungs squeeze and contract with the effort it’s taking to keep breathing.

***

**iii.**

 

The first few days after what she can only refer to as the _unmitigated disaster at the Sheriff's office,_ Regina doesn’t expect to hear from anyone. She’s pushed Emma further than she ever did before, maybe _too_ far, and if nothing else, they each need time to cool off. Emma, to figure out what it is she actually wants to take away from that talk, and Regina, to...think about whatever the hell those moments of stillness had been, and then firmly and decidedly _stop_ thinking about them. The way they’d left things - Emma teetering on the brink of something colossal, Regina trying (and, admittedly, failing) to keep herself out of it, Hook interrupting them both - has left everything in Emma’s hands, and now it’s just a case of waiting to hear what she’s done since then.

When a week passes without her hearing from Emma, Regina thinks she’s...probably not going to. And that’s - she can’t lie to herself and say that it’s _fine;_ it’s not fine, it’s really quite far from fine. But it’s an answer, at least; one answer to the dozens of unsaid questions raised between them, like a river starting to clear while the mud and grit slowly sink to the riverbed after a flood.

She’s fine. Henry passes his first attempt at placement tests with flying colours, and puts together his early decision application with days to spare. She makes him let her proofread his essay, even though he blushes to the tips of his ears when she reads the title; _how has your family background affected the way you see the world?_

“I’m gonna go...clean something,” Henry garbles, and all-but runs out of his room; ten minutes later, having finished the essay and promptly started crying, Regina can hear him clattering around in the kitchen.

“A few grammatical errors,” she says, when she walks into the kitchen; Henry looks up, takes one look at her face, and immediately wraps his arms around her in a tight hug.

“Is it okay?” he asks her, voice muffled against her sweater, and Regina laughs. “I wasn’t sure if you’d…” he pulls back, and gives her a carefully measured glance. “If you’d mind all the stuff about you and Emma.”

“ _Henry,_ ” Regina grips his shoulders; wills him to understand. “Whatever else is...going on, we’re both your mom, alright? We both love you. Why would I mind?”

“Even though you’re not talking?”

Regina winces. “Even _if_ that happened to be the case,” she nods. “Of course I don’t mind. It’s your family. And that makes for a _very_ compelling essay.”

Henry smiles, relieved. “Really?”

“It’s _wonderful,_ Henry.”

“Okay,” he nods, finally, and then turns back to cleaning their lunch plates. “Thanks, mom.”

“Any time, _mijo,_ ” Regina says, not missing the thoughtless half-smile that flits across Henry’s expression at the old endearment; and then she hesitates, not sure how to proceed. “Where did you get the impression Emma and I weren’t speaking, though? Did she say anything -”

“Nope,” Henry says quickly, focusing hard on a tough bit of melted cheese and refusing to look up. “I’m not doing that. Talk to her yourself.”

“Henry…”

“Talk to her,” he repeats firmly. “I’m staying out of it.”

“Henry Daniel Mills - ”

“ _Regina no-middle-name Mills,_ ” Henry mimics, and Regina lets out an unwilling laugh; he grins at her, pleased.

“Is that any way to talk to your own mother?” Regina asks, raising one eyebrow; he shrugs at her, all boyish cheek and lanky limbs, and she sighs. “Henry…”

“I know,” he says quietly, turning away and focusing on the sink again. “I miss her, too.”

Regina lets out a shaky breath at that, and goes over to rest her head on his shoulder; he’s taller than her now, but the hand he slides around her waist to pull her close is still the same one that  used to grip her pinky finger with round-cheeked determination while she hummed nursery rhymes to get him to sleep. On impulse, she presses a kiss to his cheek.

 “I love you, Henry.”

“ _Mom_ ,” he sighs, huffing in semi-serious teenage embarrassment, and Regina laughs. “Love you _too._ ”

“Alright, enough embarrassing mom talk for now,” she smiles, nudging him away from the sink. “I’ll finish up here, you go relax before we head out.”

They’re joining Mary Margaret and David - as well as what was _supposed_ to be a ‘small group of family friends’ but is rapidly turning into ‘half the town’ - at Granny’s for Thanksgiving this year; she’s got two pies sitting in the fridge, and a sweet potato casserole waiting in the oven. and Henry will get to hang out with his extended family, and she’s…actually, Regina’s looking forward to it. _Who would have thought it._

*

Marian brings Roland round a half hour later, bearing a tray of cookies and a bottle of wine while Roland clutches a towering stack of cheesecakes.”Happy Thanksgiving!” he crows, as Regina swoops in to save the cakes from clattering to the floor.

“Thank you, my darling,” she smiles, placing the cakes safely on the side table and pulling the seven-year old into a squirming hug. “Want to go find Henry, tell him you’re here?”

“Okay!” He’s wriggling out of her arms before she even has a chance to set him back down, and immediately goes stampeding up the stairs. “HENRY! I’M HERE!”

“Do you think he got the message?” Marian asks wryly, grinning as she steps into the hallway and sets down her things. “Hi, Regina.”

“Come in,” Regina smiles, leading the way back to the kitchen and fetching two glasses. “Drink?”

“Are we pre-gaming the town Thanksgiving now?” Marian asks her, raising an eyebrow, and Regina laughs. “I’m in.”

They sit in the kitchen so Regina can keep an eye on the oven timer, sipping red wine and catching up about work, about the minutiae of small-town gossip that Regina somehow always gets swept up in as the Mayor - the most recent scandal erupted over overcrowding at the dog park and a misunderstanding about a tennis ball - about Henry’s college applications and how Roland’s enjoying school.

Regina doesn’t mention Emma, and Marian - maybe wisely, maybe just because she doesn’t think to mention her  - doesn’t ask.

Maybe it’s simply the fact that not everyone’s internal monologue is all Emma, all the time. Regina’s just reached this less-than-cheerful thought as she - completely coincidentally - reaches the end of her first glass of wine, and reaches for a refill. Marian gives her a wary look, but Regina simply sets her shoulders squarely and pours herself another glass. It’s a _holiday._ She’s _allowed._

And then there are raised voices upstairs, and Henry comes thundering down the stairs, his coat half-hanging off one shoulder. Regina looks up, bewildered. “Henry?”

“Can I borrow your car?”

“I - ” Regina rises out of her seat, goes to stop before he simply runs out of the door. “No! What’s going on?”

“It’s mom, she - ” he casts around for Regina’s keys, and grabs them. “I’m gonna go pick her up.”

 _Emma._ Regina feels her knees give way slightly, and leans against the door for support. “Henry. Slow down. What’s happened?”

“I don’t _know,”_ he says in a rush, sounding all at once five years younger. “She just called, okay?”

“Okay,” Regina says quickly, reaching out to run a hand over his cheek. “Okay, just - calm down for a second, you can’t just go rushing out before we know what’s happening -“

“Why _not?_ ” Henry snaps at her, and Regina lets her hand drop. “She needs us.”

Those three words sink through her like lead, and Regina feels her resolve crumble.

“She’s not in any danger, okay?” Henry says, a little softer. “She’s just at her house, she sounded...I don’t know. Different.”

“Is he there?”

Henry stares at her, unnerved; and then his eyes widen with understanding, and he shakes his head.”I don’t think so.”

Regina feels herself nod. “Okay,” she says tersely, smoothing Henry’s coat over his chest and fussing briefly over the buttons. “Drive safe.”

“Thanks,” he says quietly, kissing her cheek and glancing through the kitchen doorway. “Sorry, Marian.”

“We’ll hold down the fort here,” Marian smiles reassuringly. “You go see Emma.”

He nods, gives Regina a last quick smile, and ducks out of the door. A minute later, Regina hears her car start, and he’s gone.

For a long moment, there’s only silence - silence in which she’s aware of a dripping tap in the kitchen sink; of the hum from a passing motorbike, of the racing pulse in her wrists. There’s such an overwhelming… _confusion_ of emotions running through her that she’s hardly able to put a name to a single one of them, although she’s aware first and foremost of _worry_ coursing through her veins, clouding her thoughts.

“Momma?”

Regina flinches. “H-Henry?”

“ _Momma,_ ” Roland repeats from the top of the stairs, and Regina shakes her head numbly. _God_.

“Roland,” Marian calls from the kitchen, brushing past Regina with a comforting squeeze to her arm. “It’s alright, I’m right here. _You_ sit down,” she tells Regina sharply, nodding towards the lounge and heading up the stairs to where Roland is clutching one of Henry’s old toy horses and looking worried.

Regina watches her go; watches Roland lift his arms up to her with an easy familiarity, affection blooming across his chubby cheeks; seven’s a good age, a cuddly, playful age, Henry had been just the same.

Shaking her head experimentally, trying to clear some of the white noise currently lodged against her eardrums, Regina takes a few shaky steps into the lounge and collapses onto the couch, clutching her phone so tightly in one fist that every knuckle stands out against her skin. Dimly, she’s aware of Marian’s soft murmurs and Roland’s high-pitched responses; but with every second that ticks by, all her focus goes to listening for her car, and to the phone in her hand. _Emma, Emma, Emma -_

Finally, _finally,_ after the clock on the mantlepiece has ticked away a precious half an hour - Marian and Roland have tactfully retreated to play in Henry’s room, and they’re officially late for dinner - there’s the sound of crunching gravel outside, and two headlights sweep through the gap in the curtains. Regina’s standing up and opening the front door before she’s quite registered that they’re back; by the time she’s hurrying out onto the porch, Emma is just getting out of the car, a loose cardigan wrapped around a  tank top and sweats, her hair loose and falling wildly over both shoulders. She’s making some small joke to Henry - Regina sees his face split into an attempt at a smile that comes out more like a grimace - and then she looks up, and sees Regina stumbling towards her, and her face drains of colour.

“Emma?” Regina takes a few hasty steps towards her, and then slows down, and waits for Emma to come closer.

“Hi,” Emma says quietly, shoving both hands into her pockets and looking anywhere but at Regina. “Uh. Sorry for calling Henry away, you guys had plans.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Regina says impatiently, and then immediately regretting her tone when she sees Emma flinch almost imperceptibly. “ _Emma._ ”

“I just need to crash here,” Emma says, her voice low. “You can go to dinner, I’ll just take the couch and - ”

“You’ll have the guest room,” Regina says, with a small nod towards Henry as he locks the car and starts towards the house.

“On it,” he mutters, passing her with a small, tight smile, and Regina tries to convey as much gratitude as she can fit into a mouthed _thanks_.

“You don’t have to - ” Emma starts, but Regina just shakes her head, and takes the last two steps towards Emma to take her arm.

“Come in,” she says, focusing on walking slowly, and _not_ on Emma’s arm pressing against hers, or on Emma’s hair tickling her cheek. _Focus._ Right. It’s cold.  “You must be frozen through.”

*

Five minutes later, Emma is installed on the couch with a blanket around her shoulders and a cup of hot cider, Marian has made a tactful exit with Roland - promising Regina to make her excuses for her at the dinner and to bring some leftovers tomorrow - and Henry has made up the guest room with clean sheets and a set of pyjamas.

“Mom?” They both look up, and he grins at them from the doorway. “I’m gonna go over to Granny’s now, okay?”

Regina raises an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”

“Sure,” he smiles easily. “It’ll be cool, I’ll hang out with gran and gramps, take your casserole over.”

“The _casserole -_ ”

“I took it out of the oven before leaving to get Emma,” Henry tells her, lips twitching into a smirk when her shoulders slump in relief. “You’re welcome.”

Regina sighs. “Alright, go on over,” she says, with a sidelong glance at Emma; Emma, who’s sitting stiffly on the couch, staring blankly ahead of her and apparently oblivious to the cup of hot cider that must surely be warming her fingers.

“Cool,” Henry nods, following Regina’s worried look and frowning a little. “You guys...talk.”

“Henry…”

“I’m going, I’m going,” he says quickly, catching on to the warning tone in Regina’s voice and wisely starting to back away. “Bye!”

And then he’s gone, closing the front door quietly behind him and leaving Regina and Emma alone in the silent house.

For a few minutes, Regina busies herself by tidying up the kitchen - although really there’s nothing left to do, Henry’s already cleaned everything, _the sneak -_ and getting herself a cup of cider. And then there’s nothing left to do but go back into the lounge, and sit down on the couch, a careful distance away from Emma, and wait for her to start talking.

When Emma does say something, a few minutes later, it’s this: “Thanks.”

“Of course,” Regina says automatically, gesturing ineffectively around the room. “No trouble, you’re always welcome here, you know that -”

“No,” Emma cuts her off, still staring straight ahead. “Not that.”

“Right,” Regina nods, feeling slightly at a loss. “So…”

“Anyone worth anything, you said,” Emma says, and Regina feels her chest contract. _No…_

“What do you mean?” she asks, fighting to keep her voice even, and then - _then -_ Emma turns her head to look her squarely in the eye.

“Come on, Regina,” she says quietly, her voice still horribly devoid of emotion. “Really?”

Regina closes her eyes briefly, reminds herself not to rise to the argument, reminds herself that Emma doesn’t need that right now.  “You called Henry,” she says instead, trying for a different approach. “Why?”

Emma shrugs. “I knew he’d come,” she says, raising her eyebrows as she stares Regina down. “Is there a problem with that? The kid’s seventeen, he was fine.”

“Of course he was _fine,_ ” Regina says, a touch of impatience creeping into her voice. “But you could have called anyone. Your parents, or…”

“Or you, right,” Emma says, and Regina bites her lip. “I didn’t want to make it a big thing, okay? Henry just...came and got me. So I could crash here.”

“And you thought I wouldn’t have any _questions_?” Regina asks, and Emma frowns.

“I thought you’d be out already,” she admits, with a humourless laugh, and Regina can’t help shaking her head; Emma catches her exasperation, and huffs slightly. “Okay, so maybe not my most foolproof plan ever.”

“Maybe not,” Regina echoes, feeling an unfamiliar chill settle along her spine. “But I can...leave, if you’d rather get some sleep.”

“I - ” Emma hesitates, and then shakes her head; a small, jerky motion, but just enough to keep Regina in her seat. “No. Stay.”

Regina nods, and stays, and waits.

And waits.

Eventually, Emma staring down at her cider and the silence pressing louder and louder against Regina’s eardrums, she snaps. “ _Talk,_ then,” she emphasises, giving Emma what she hopes comes across as an encouraging nod. “You said something about… Anyone worth anything.” Emma scowls at that - at hearing the words thrown back at her, maybe - and Regina winces. “Sorry.”

“I thought about that,” Emma mumbled, directing her words mainly at her lap.

Regina nods carefully. “And…?”

“It’s Thanksgiving,” Emma says quickly, silencing anything Regina might have said next. “And we were gonna do it just for ourselves, you know? Last real holiday without a baby in the house, we could just have a lowkey dinner and drink rum and spend all weekend in bed -”

Regina can’t quite help the way both hands curl tightly into fists against the couch, or the faint shudder that whistles past her clenched teeth, and Emma pauses.

“...Anyway,” she says, more slowly; and then the next rush of words comes pouring out, each faster than the one before. “It sounded fine, a break from work, whatever - and then Henry said you guys were doing Granny’s again, and that was just - different. Like the party they did for me and mom, after the first time we were sent to the Enchanted Forest, everyone just crowding in together, my parents and Henry and - ” she sucks in a short, sharp breath. “Everyone.”

Regina doesn’t quite dare to say anything in response to that, but she nods, and extends her hand slightly into the space between them on the couch.  She’s not sure Emma wants to be touched just now, but she wants to at least -

Emma’s fingers close over her own, and Regina breathes out.

“He said next year we’d be a family,” Emma says, aiming each word at the floor with poison-dart precision. “So it’d be nice to just...be _us._ It’s - I thought it was good, someone who wants to be just with me, all the time - and it was - but I don’t - ”

“Emma,” Regina says quietly. “Breathe.” She curls her thumb over Emma’s, soothing slowly over her skin; Emma nods, and takes a shuddering breath.

“It took me so long,” she says quietly, still sounding almost confused by her own words. “To get this. To get this family, to have enough people to fill a _diner_ for _Thanksgiving_ , so many... Most years it was a pizza and a load of movies, and sometimes a social worker brought us a turkey after her days off because she felt bad, and - fuck - now it’s… It means something, and I want it to mean something _now,_ not just next year, and I don’t - Killian didn’t get it. He wanted...just me.”

Regina closes her eyes, her fingers gripping Emma’s tightly; she counts very carefully to ten, and then back down to one, and opens her eyes again. Emma’s staring at the place on the couch where their hands are linked, and worrying her lips between her teeth, and she looks so, _so_ tired.

“Fucking _Milah,_ what the fuck,” she says suddenly, vehemently; Regina almost flinches away.

“Emma - “

“No.” Emma lets go of Regina’s hand, and sets down her cider, and gets up off the couch. “No, fuck. Like I wouldn’t care? She’s mine too, _mine,_ and he just - ” Her hands are curled around her bump. “ _No._ ”

“Emma…” Regina stands up slowly, and takes a careful step forwards. Emma’s breathing heavily, her chest an angry, splotchy red above the loose tank top, and there’s a constant ripple of held-back sobbing, or maybe laughter, running up and down her throat.

“I - don’t - _want_ \- it,” she says, each word weighed and aimed with precise, rapid-fire intent. “And...and I’m done trying to want it.”

 _Now see mommy and daddy in the kitchen…_  Regina swallows, and tastes something sharp at the back of her throat.

“Okay,” she says, every cell in her body thrilling with it, with the woman standing in front of her and unwrapping every last self-deception like they’re so many layers of cellophane. “So you…”

Emma stares her down, and doesn’t say a word.

Regina feels the tremble in her voice, feels herself stumble over, “What do you want - ”

But before she can get Emma’s name out - before she can catch herself, and try to veer the conversation back towards anything, _anything,_ but that question - before Regina can do so much as _register_ the words coming out of her mouth -

Before Regina can do any of that, Emma has taken three short steps towards her, and kissed her.

_Kissed her._

It’s fast, and it’s rushed - a smudge of chapstick against the corner of her lips, their noses nudging awkwardly against each other, Emma leaning forwards at an unnatural angle with the swell of her stomach between them, warm through the layers of Regina’s sweaters -

Emma’s hands, gripping both her wrists. Emma’s forehead leaning against hers, Emma’s hair falling against her collarbones. Emma’s lips on hers, and Regina doesn’t know how it happens but they go from a breathless kind of stillness into frantic movement in one fluid heartbeat. Regina runs her tongue over the cracked (but soft, so soft) shapes of Emma’s mouth, and Emma lets her lips open with a kind of sigh; their lips move together, both of them breathing in and out in fast, short breaths, both hearts hammering wildly - Regina can feel it, can feel Emma’s pulse jumping against hers in both wrists - it beats out a stop-start rhythm, just a little out of time, two syllables coursing through her veins, _Emma, Emma, Emma -_

“Um - ” Emma mumbles the word against Regina’s mouth, half-lost in a ragged breath. “Regina - _Regina -_ ” And then it’s over, almost as soon as it starts; Regina feels Emma’s body tensing against hers before she’s sure Emma is even aware of it happening. She pulls herself away in one fast motion, and for half a second Regina can look fully into her eyes, can see the wonder and the terror fighting for the foreground -

Emma lets go of her wrists; her face slackens with something that looks a lot like _horror,_ and Regina can’t breathe.

“No,” Emma says, quiet and lost and scared. “No, I’m - sorry - not - ”

She presses her lips tightly together, and shakes her head violently. And then she pushes roughly past Regina and flees the room.

Standing perfectly still, Regina hears Emma’s footsteps retreating up the stairs, hears the door of the guest bedroom swing open and then slam shut.

When she opens her eyes, and glances at the clock on the mantlepiece, Regina lets out a shaky, barely-contained laugh. _Twenty minutes._ Twenty minutes, that’s all it takes for the world to start to mend itself and then fall to pieces all over again. Even for her, that must be some kind of record.

*

The light in the guest bedroom is out when she makes her way upstairs, and Regina only hesitates for as long as it takes her to remember _I’m sorry_ \- and then she walks down the hallway to her own room, and closes the door as quietly as she can. She undresses mechanically, manages to do up about three buttons on her pyjama blouse, and then lets herself unfold onto the mattress.

She’s not going to go to sleep. She’s just going to lie here, and keep her mind perfectly blank, _not think about anything -_ and then all at once, Regina feels herself sinking into unconsciousness; dreamless exhaustion takes a hold behind her ribs, and pulls her under.

*

“Mom?”

Regina shifts blearily, her neck at an uncomfortable angle and her bare legs already shivering before she’s even aware of being cold. She blinks, and manages to focus on Henry’s worried face, hovering above hers.

“Henry?” There’s a light on in the hallway, spilling into her room, and she vaguely registers her discarded clothes all over the floor. _Right._ “What… Is she -”

“Emma’s asleep,” he says quietly, frowning a little too astutely when Regina immediately relaxes. “I didn’t mean to wake you - here - ”

He tugs the blanket out from under Regina, and carefully tucks it back over her curled-up body. Regina sighs, pressing her sleep-creased face back into the pillow. Her thoughts feel sluggish, fogged-over; but she half-smiles when Henry stoops to press a kiss to her hair.

“Night, mom.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BOOM. See you sooner rather than later, I hope! (And possibly talk to you very soon indeed - I'm @lauraxamelia on Twitter and if you want to say hi that'd be lovely!)
> 
>  **Update: 21/03/16:** I KNOW. Just a quick note to say that as of today, I'm officially moving this fic out of haitus and back into work-in-progress territory - slow but steady progress has been happening for a while now, and there really will be a next chapter soon...ish... In the meantime, find me on twitter @bringyouhometoo or as bringyouhometoo on tumblr!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ....Well that'll teach me to ever make a "hahaha you'll get the next chapter TOMORROW!!" promise ever again. So sorry everyone. THANKS AS ALWAYS TO SPARK AND BAILEY AND ZOHRA for the continued cheerleading and plotting and editing help. Also thanks to all of you who left a comment on Chapter 3! I know I got to them hilariously late, but they were MUCH APPRECIATED.  <3

**i.**

It takes Regina a few moments to place her surroundings when she wakes up the next morning; everything seems distorted, too bright in the late-morning sunlight, the familiar shapes of her bedroom turned sterile and unfamiliar - and then the memories crash into her all at once: dragging herself to bed last night, Henry coming in to tuck her in... _Emma_. Emma calling Henry, Emma sitting next to her on the couch, Emma kissing her -

Emma running upstairs. Emma asleep in the guest room.

Regina's out of bed and down the hallway before she has time to register what she's doing; in the instant that she pauses outside the guest room, she becomes aware of her bare legs, her haphazardly buttoned pyjama top. Flushing slightly, she pulls at the hem, but it's too late, the door's swinging open, and inside -

She's gone. The room's empty, the bed's stripped and the sheets are piled neatly on the floor, and Emma's gone.

Regina sways against the doorframe, and takes a few slow, deep breaths in and out. _Of course_.

"Mom?" Henry's poked his head out from his bedroom, raising his eyebrows slightly when he takes in her dishevelled appearance. "Morning."

"Henry," Regina says blankly, tugging even more ineffectually at her blouse. "Sorry, did I wake you?"

He gives her an unimpressed stare. "It's after ten."

Regina swallows, her mouth dry. "...Oh."

"You want breakfast?" Before Regina can answer, her stomach rumbles; they both laugh a little reluctantly, and Henry heads towards the staircase. "I'll get on it. Eggs okay?"

"Thank you," she says, smiling as he ambles down the stairs. "I'll just...freshen up, be right down."

"Put some pants on," he calls up, from the downstairs hall; Regina puts her hands on her hips.

"Henry!"

" _Mom_!" he mimics, and then they're both laughing; the air feels lighter against Regina's skin, cleaner somehow, and she's smiling as she heads into the bathroom.

*

Henry's infectious good mood lasts hasn’t worn off by the time Regina comes downstairs to breakfast - deliciously soft poached eggs, served over fragrant spinach and toasted English muffins, and she doesn't miss the effort he's going to; Regina eats, and lets his cheerful talk distract her all the way through breakfast and halfway through doing the dishes.

And then - Regina doesn't know what shifts, only one minute she's rinsing out a glass and letting the warm water run over her hands, and the next she's staring out of the kitchen window with a lump in her throat, the water burning hot against her numb skin, her head crowding with white noise and jumbled, painfully half-formed thoughts.

"Mom?" Henry's light touch to her shoulder brings her back, but only a little; Regina still feels strangely _not-here_ , like she's watching this all play out from a great distance, a great height.

“Henry..." she pauses, and then asks the only question she wants to ask. "Where's Emma?"

Henry frowns, his jaw working unhappily. "I don't know."

“Henry - "

"I don't, okay!" he says hotly. "She...left before I woke up."

_Oh._

"I’m sorry," she says, her voice small and brittle.

Henry sighs, leans his forehead against her shoulder. "I'll call her this afternoon," he promises. "If she hasn't showed up by four."

"Four," Regina says blankly. A whole five hours away. Can she wait five hours? "Why four?"

He shrugs, in a slow, gangling motion. "Give her time, I guess. If she has...stuff to do."

Regina frowns at him. "Stuff?"

"Yeah, stuff," he says carefully, avoiding her eyes. "I don't know, mom, okay, don't ask me."

"Henry -"

"No."

Regina flinches back almost instinctively; in one syllable, he'd sounded so much older, so much stronger - this isn't the high-voiced emotion of a child suspicious of his mother and a book of stories, or the uncertain, reedy voice of a teenager who just needs his mother to let him back in, to start trusting him again - it's the voice of an adult, telling her not to ask him any more questions. She feels...wrong-footed, light-headed almost; she doesn't quite know how to respond; doesn't know how he _wants_ her to respond.

“I'm sorry," she settles on eventually, and Henry lets out a slow, exasperated huff of air. "Just... Henry, you do understand, don't you, why it's frustrating when there's things I can't understand? Or - help?"

"Of course I do," he says, eyes warm and steady and fixed on hers. "It's Emma."

"I meant - " she shakes her head, trying to deflect, trying to avoid - he's still looking at her like she's saying the most obvious thing in the world, like it doesn't even need saying. "I mean - "

" _Mom_."

"Emma," she says, and then can't say anything more at all; and Henry takes two quick steps towards her, and wraps her in a tight, warm hug.

*

The phone rings at twenty-three minutes past twelve. Regina lets it ring three times, her hand perfectly still over the receiver; when she picks it up and presses it to her ear, her voice sounds strangely hollow. "Em - "

"She's here."

"...David," Regina says slowly, feeling relief run down her spine. "Hello."

"Hey, Regina," he says, sounding heavy; Regina sits down carefully at the dining table, crossing her legs and waiting for him to continue speaking, to give her some answers, to give her _something_. "Happy Thanksgiving."

Regina almost laughs; she'd all but forgotten. "Happy Thanksgiving," she echoes, and then bites her lip from asking any questions, from pressing him further, from _making him tell her_ \- "How...are things?"

"Things are fine," David says, and now he sounds - is that amused? " _Things_ have been hanging out here all morning."

_God._

"I take it you mean your daughter," Regina replies, trying for brittle but possibly only managing a vague kind of quiet, and David laughs; it's a low, comforting kind of rumble, and she presses the phone closer to her ear without knowing what she's doing. "How is she?"

"Fine. Emma's fine," he repeats, gently. "She said you guys took care of her last night - " Regina blinks, hard, and bites down on her tongue - "Thank you."

"No problem," Regina manages, pressing two knuckles to the bridge of her nose. "I was - Henry and I, we were a little concerned when she left so suddenly this morning."

"Yeah," David says, exhaling slowly. "Yeah, she says she just - wanted to come let us know, you know...”

"About..." Regina feels her stomach muscles tense  in preparation - "Killian?"

"Their fight."

"Of course."

"I don't suppose - " David breaks off, and Regina hears him clear his throat. "I don't suppose she told you much? What they were fighting about?"

"Not in great detail," Regina says carefully. "She didn't seem to - want to talk all that much." _Shit_. In the pause, she rolls her eyes, catching sight of her reflection in a polished bowl of fruit, and hastily tries to regain some semblance of control over her own mouth,. "How about this morning?"

"Not really, she just... Says it's..." David trails off, and Regina feels a brief - very brief - moment of pity for him. "Pretty finished?"

Regina's pulse is very loud in her ears. Whatever she's feeling in that instant, she refuses to give a name to, because no matter what comes next, right now Emma is _hurting_ , Emma is _unhappy_ , Emma is - Emma is -

"That's the impression I was getting," she says, her lip curling in a tiny, half-guilty smile; through the receiver, she hears David sigh.

"Yeah. Maybe with some time to cool off..."

_Don't you dare._

"If that's what Emma wants," she says instead, clenching one fist together and staring hard at the way her knuckles stand out, white, through her too-thin skin, the blood and sinews working away and suddenly all too transparent, all too vulnerable -

"Of course," David says quickly. "Of course, yeah. Look, Regina, I -" he cuts himself off, sounding all at once so much like Emma that Regina smiles inwardly. "If you want to talk, later maybe..."

Regina wrinkles her nose. "Is Prince Charming offering me a listening ear?"

She hears David laugh, tired and familiar. And kind. "Hey, it's in the name."

"Mmh," she says, raising an eyebrow at her reflection, rippling and distorted in the bowl of apples. "Convincing."

David laughs again; and then stops, his voice dropping in tone a little. "I mean it."

Regina smiles, then. She's not sure when this happened, this...closeness, this overwhelming feeling of knowing there is someone in her corner - multiple someones, a whole army of kind-hearted if faintly exasperating _someones_ -

She likes it.

"Thank you," she says, her voice surprisingly warm to her own ears. "I might...take you up on that."

"Do. And - " David hesitates again, and in that instant Regina can almost predict what he's going to say – “Should I tell Emma to…”

Regina closes her eyes, and breathes out for four slow, steady heartbeats. “Don’t,” she says, opening her eyes again, staring hard at her still-clenched hand, the vein standing out against her wrist – “Emma can – whenever she chooses – she can – okay?” She finishes roughly, half-daring him to point out the incomplete sentences, but all David does is sigh, sounding _infuriatingly_ understanding.

“Okay.”

*

**ii.**

If anyone were to ask her, later, what happened next, Regina would say it all happened incredibly quickly. And in a way, it does; but every day, every hour, every last _second_ of every minute - they all bleed together, each slower than the last. She finds out, through snatches of conversations with Marian, with Ruby, with Henry, that Emma's staying at the loft. That Hook has, by turn, been shutting himself up in their apartment and drinking himself into a stupor on board his ship. That he calls at David and Snow's at least twice a day. That Emma's not talking to him. That, one night, David's car pulls up outside the apartment, and two hooded figures duck inside to emerge a few minutes later laden down with duffel bags and half-open suitcases, almost spilling half Emma's wardrobe and a few boxes of baby clothes across the sidewalk.

When Regina asks Henry, the next morning, if he'd been the one to go with David, he denies it vehemently; and although he's drooping over his cornflakes like maybe he'd been on guard duty all night, Regina hears the truth in his words. Perhaps there's more of the bandit left inside the school teacher than she'd given Mary Margaret credit for.

And then...

Silence. Silence, from everyone. Marian avoids her eyes when they meet for an afternoon in the park with Roland; Ruby sees her at the door to Granny's diner and disappears into the stock room with a squeak; Henry mumbles something about homework and takes his dinner up to his room.

November turns into December with a frosty gust of wind, turning the trees to icicle-laden sculptures and the windows to intricate, sparkling works of art in the early morning sunlight. Decorations start going up around town, Thanksgiving officially behind them and the Christmas season upon them with a vengeance. Regina has to send out the memo reminding staff about the town hall embargo on Christmas carols twice in two days. There's a lot to do, suddenly, with lights to be turned on, patches of black ice and the resulting traffic concerns to send out alerts for, celebrations to oversee and holiday staff to employ. And through it all - through every phone call, every board meeting, every rushed working lunch -

They're not talking to her about Emma.

And this isn't the simple, possibly tactful avoidance that Regina's become all-but used, to ever since their extended circle of friends and relatives started to quietly and discreetly take note of the way her lips pursed every time they mentioned Emma and her pirate in the same breath. This is _not talking_ , it's a carefully orchestrated blanket ban, and after three days Regina wants to _scream_ at someone.

Instead, she waits until Henry's left for school, and drives to Emma and Hook's apartment.

The blinds are drawn when she gets there, and she has to kick aside a small pile of newspapers to get to the front door. There's no answer when she presses the buzzer, no response when she calls the landline - silence.

Regina fingers the master key she's brought along, _just in case_ , although in case of _what_ she's never quite got around to justifying to herself. She could just –

_No._

She draws her hand out of her purse, shaking her head slightly to clear the ringing sense of potential - unlock the door, sneak inside while he's asleep, let the power always burning just below her fingertips out, just for a few seconds - a few seconds is all it'd take, a few seconds and a twist of the wrist and he'd be _gone_ –  

And in the end, that's all it _does_ take.

Regina draws her hand out of her purse, grinding her teeth with frustrated resolve. She _won’t,_ she _will not_ stoop to that level. She’s going to turn around and drive home and _give Emma some space._ Giving the door one last frustrated shove with her hand, she turns to go –

The door creaks open at the touch of her hand.

And the apartment’s empty. Regina takes two slow, silent steps inside before she’s sure; there’s a silence about the rooms, the kind of stillness that’s particular to an uninhabited home.  Not to mention the bags of trash piled up against the kitchen doorway, the empty coat hangers, the strangely incongruous boot-marks against the otherwise pristine and empty hallway floorboards.

“Hello?” Regina’s voice rings out, useless, in the silence. There’s no response; she doesn’t expect a response.

Still, she makes herself check every room. The kitchen, a solitary dirty plate left in the sink and everything else cleared away or simply _gone;_ the living room, furniture devoid of any signs of personality, books gone, records gone, TV gone; the bedroom, with the bed still unmade. Regina stares at the rumpled sheets, and feels for a strange moment like she’s stumbled in on something intimate, something raw –

But it’s just...dirty laundry, and after another few seconds Regina turns on her heels and walks out of the deserted apartment.

*

Regina doesn't know how she manages it, but she drives to Marian's house, all the way over on the other side of town, without quite being aware of where she's going. When she pulls up outside the house - a cosy little place, with an unassuming lawn out front but a sprawling bit of forest just behind the backyard - she feels, quite suddenly, all the nervous energy draining out through the soles of her feet.

It takes another five minutes to work up the energy to get out of the car and walk up the gravel pathway.

Marian opens the door quickly - _too_ quickly, Regina suspects she'd spotted her a few minutes ago - and smiles broadly. "Regina!"

"Hi," Regina says, her voice high, uncertain. "Sorry, I should have called ahead."

Marian shakes her head quickly, curls flying either side of her cheeks, and steps aside to let Regina in. "Don't worry, I'm having a home day anyway...Ro's upstairs, teacher's development day at school today."

"Ah," Regina nods, slipping off her coat and hanging it up next to Roland's bright orange snowsuit; she smiles, running her hand along the row of coats and jackets, everything in miniature.

"Tea?" Marian asks, already on her way to the kitchen, startling Regina out of her distraction; Regina nods gratefully, and follows.

Marian keeps up a stream of uncomplicated chatter as she boils water, gets out mugs and tea leaves, hunts for honey and lemon while the tea steeps - sensing, perhaps, that Regina needs a few minutes to regain her bearings. Eventually, they're both sitting at the kitchen table, sipping in silence; Regina feels her throat run dry between every gulp of too-hot tea.

"So," Marian says finally, when it becomes clear that Regina's not going to be the one to speak first. "What's going on, Regina?"

"I," Regina says, and then stops, feeling foolish. Marian just watches her, eyebrows raised; Regina flushes, stares down at her mug. "Went to Emma's apartment today."

"Okay..." Marian says carefully. "And she...didn't want to see you?"

"No," Regina shakes her head automatically. "No, not Snow and David's."

Marian gives her a _look,_ one eyebrow arching as she sets down her mug with precise care. "Ah."

"I meant the one she had with Hook."

“I see.”

"Marian," Regina says, voice suddenly strong, a little too loud in the confined space. "Did _everyone_ know?"

Marian winces; Regina presses her lips together, and waits.

The clock on the kitchen wall ticks away a full minute before Marian says anything.

"I wouldn't know about _everyone_ , okay," she says quietly. "But I heard something from Ruby Lucas, a couple days ago...Apparently he just packed up and left, middle of the night. Drove over the town line, and no one's heard from him since."

Regina swallows back a dozen more questions - and presses on with the only one that matters. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Marian shrugs helplessly, trying to smile. "Would you believe me if I said I assumed you knew?"

"Marian."

"...Yeah, okay," Marian nods, relenting. "Sorry. Sorry, it was just this - feeling. I didn't know if...it was my news to share."

Regina exhales. _Damn it._

And _damn it_ , she can't even argue with that, can she?  Because Marian's - Marian's _right_. If it's not her secret to tell, then she shouldn't be the one to tell it, and isn't that the grudge that followed Regina across decades, across realms and curses and far, far too many mistakes to count?

"No," she says quietly, taking another sip of tea, closing her eyes and letting the warmth run down her throat. "No, that's...understandable."

"I didn't mean to keep it from you," Marian says, her face twisting into an anxious frown. "I don't think anyone meant it to feel like...you were being excluded, or - "

"I understand completely," Regina says smoothly, cutting her off; her heart is beating uncomfortably fast against her ribcage, and suddenly she knows she doesn't need, or want, to hear Marian's excuses and apologies. "Thank you."

*

**iii.**

_“Hey mom, it’s Henry. Can you come pick me up from Granny’s after you finish work? I…forgot the car keys. Sorry!”_

Regina pauses, her finger hovering over the _replay message_ button for the fourth time in a row; Henry’s voicemail is still _not_ making any more sense, and he’s not returning her calls. It’s nearing six o’clock - high time she leaves the office and makes her way home. Or makes her way to Granny’s, apparently, because Henry’s _forgotten the car keys_ and _needs picking up._

Right.

As she tidies her desk and picks up the papers and pamphlets that still need attention tonight - thankfully not too many, but maybe she can work ahead a little - Regina shakes her head, feeling oddly as though she’s been submerged in deep water; there’s a kind of ringing in her ears, a kind of...familiarity? _Hey mom - it’s Henry -_

All at once, she’s reminded of Henry, ten years old; ducking behind post boxes and whispering into radios, his round cheeks flushed with covert concentration, his eyes bright and fixed on her when he thought she wasn’t watching. _Can you come pick me up from Granny’s?_ His voice rising on the last word, the rest of the sentence lost in a rushed mumble - like he’s planning _Operations_ all over again. Like he’s got something to hide.

Regina stops that thought cold, and gathers up the rest of her things in sharp, mechanical movements. _Stop that._ Unless -

She grimaces, catching her own eye in the mirror above her desk. _Unless what, Regina?_

The voice she’s hearing is high and cold, and too, too familiar -

Too irritated, suddenly, to face the walk, to listen to her own thoughts for any longer, Regina twists her hand in one, fast motion, breathing in as purple smoke envelops her and brings her, reeling, to a standstill outside the diner.

*

Henry’s waiting for her by the porch, hands folded into his coat sleeves, neck wrapped in his thick winter scarf. His nose has turned red in the biting wind, and Regina has to bite back an immediate reprimand for standing out in the cold for so long -

His face clears with wide, open relief when he sees her. “Mom! You came!”

“Of course I did,” Regina tells him fondly. “Now, what’s this about missing car keys?”

“Oh yeah, I…” Henry blanches. “Left them in my...locker.”

She sighs, shaking her head. “Henry.”

“I know, I know.”

“How do you suppose you’d have gotten home if you were in college and this happened? No Mom to call for the spare keys?”

He lifts and drops his shoulders once, a fluid, slightly cheeky gesture. “Walked?”

“Oh, is that so,” Regina stares him down, grinning slightly when he winces. “Well, go on then.”

“ _Mom…_ ”

Regina bites back a laugh. “Here,” she says, fishing out the spare keys to the car and handing them over. “Now you can drive us _both_ home, how about that?”

“Okay!” Henry grins, his face lighting up again. “Actually, um - “ he’s already pushing past her towards the car he’d parked opposite the diner this morning - “I ordered two hot chocolates, you go get those, I’ll get...de-icing…”

And Regina can do nothing but watch as he skitters towards the car on his long, gangling legs; he turns around once, waves her towards the diner - she shrugs, baffled, and goes inside.

*

“Hi.”

For a second, Regina just stares; and then she turns around, wrenches the door to the diner open again - just in time to see the Mercedes disappearing around the corner, her _treacherous_ teenage son presumably inside.

She lets the door fall shut, and closes her eyes, and counts to ten.

When she turns around again, Emma’s still standing there, holding two mugs of cocoa and attempting something like a careful smile. “Hi,” she says again, her voice small and soft. “Regina. It’s good to see you.”

“It’s -” Regina lets out a shaky, half-laughing breath. “ _Emma._ ”

Emma stares at her, eyes widening slightly. “What?” she asks, and then - perhaps sensing that Regina’s not in the mood to answer right now - ushers her quickly to a booth. “Come on, sit, I got, um, I got us some cocoa...”

Regina sits.

Regina takes the cup of cocoa, and takes a long, warming sip; watches as Emma does the same, drinking too quickly and ending up with foam outlining her top lip -

Regina’s hand, resting on the table, jerks up instinctively, thumb poised to brush - she sets her hand back down, and stares very hard at her fingers until she trusts she has them under control again. Emma raises an eyebrow at her, lips quirking into a small smile; and then she falters under Regina’s glare, her face falling back into its pained expression.

“You know,” Regina says eventually, taking pity on the overwhelmingly _awkward_ silence stretched tight between them. “You could have just _called_ , Emma. No need for this - ” she pauses to wave her hand expansively. “Operation Marshmallow.”

Emma splutters with a kind of helpless laugh. “Operation Marshmallow?”

“I don’t _know,_ ” Regina snaps - her tone slightly undermined by the smile tugging at her lips. “Whatever ridiculous scheme you cooked up with our son -”

She cuts herself off, tongue suddenly heavy in her mouth; across the table from her, Emma is smiling at her with wide, uncertain eyes.

“How did you know that’s what we’d call it?” she asks quietly, and Regina feels the warmth of her words sink to the base of her spine.

“Lucky guess,” she says, when she trusts herself to speak, and Emma hiccups slightly. “ _Or_ the fact that you’re both as bad as each other.”

Emma’s mouth twists into a rueful smile, and silence falls again between them; silence during which Regina is intensely aware of the seven or eight inches between their elbows on the red tabletop, of the low hum of conversation from the various groups of diner guests, of the warm air blasting at her calves from the space heater concealed beneath the bench.

“Regina,” Emma says finally, and at the sudden change in tone Regina feels her spine straighten, feels every nerve in her body readying itself in anticipation - “I’m sorry I...didn’t call.”

“Okay,” Regina says slowly, staring hard at the sugar bowl on the table. “It’s fine. You had - things on your mind.”

“Things,” Emma echoes, in a far-away kind of voice. “Yeah. Guess I did. Um, I don’t know what you’ve heard, but - “

“I heard nothing,” Regina says quickly - _too_ quickly, she only hears how much her words sound like an accusation when Emma flinches slightly in her seat. She softens her voice, tries again. “I...went by your and Hook’s apartment though.”

“Oh,” Emma says, in a small voice.

“It looked like you’d both - cleared out.”

“Oh.”

“A few days ago,” Regina adds, and Emma nods slowly.

“Yeah, Kill - “ she cuts herself off, wincing slightly. “He’s gone. Left town. I only heard about it...after. My parents got all my stuff out a couple days before that.”

“I heard about that,” Regina says carefully, allowing herself a tiny smile. _So it was Snow._ Well, maybe it’s not too late to turn over a new parenting leaf. “And you haven’t - had word from Hook at all?”

Emma shakes her head, staring down into her lap; Regina thinks she might be trying not to cry. “No.”

Regina blinks hard, focusing back on the sugar bowl.

“No, I haven’t heard from him,” Emma continues, her voice rising, taking on a surprising kind of strength.

Someone’s left their spoon in the bowl, staining some of the sugar tea-brown.

“And I don’t...think I’m going to.” At that, Regina chances a look upwards - to find Emma watching her, her jaw set in a stubborn line, her eyes dry. “And that’s his problem.”

Somewhere behind Regina’s ribcage, something unlocks.

*

**iv.**

Three days later, and Regina couldn’t have said how the _hell_ she’d gotten from there to here in less than 72 hours. _There_ being  that strange, stilted talk at Granny’s, the way Emma had gripped her elbow when they’d said goodbye, the half-smile Emma given her when Regina had turned at the corner to Mifflin Street to look back at her -  

And _here_ being brunch with the Charmings. She thinks there might have been an invite issued via Henry, a panicked phone call to a slightly amused-sounding Marian, a night in with a glass or three of wine - and here she is.

It’s been a noisy, boisterous affair - Neal and Ruthie climbing all over Henry in their pyjamas, David serving up plate after plate of hot, greasy french toast, Emma sitting on the couch with her feet tucked up and her head resting on Snow’s shoulder, laughing harder than Regina thinks she’s seen her laugh in...months. After they’ve all eaten more than their fill, and the kids have crashed out in front of some cartoons in the spare room, David and Henry muscle them all out of the kitchen -

“Let the _men_ do the dishes, Mom,” Henry tells her with a wicked kind of grin, and a kiss pressed to her smiling cheek -

And then all at once it’s just Emma and Snow on the couch, Regina on the chair opposite, each of them cradling a glass of orange juice and watching the snow pile up against the windows.

“Thank you for coming,” Snow says suddenly - startling Emma out of a near-doze on her shoulder, and Regina has to bite down hard on her lip to stop from laughing -

“Of course,” she says smoothly, meeting Snow’s eye with a blithe kind of ease. “Thank you for asking us.”

“It was our pleasure,” Snow says happily, eyes going to the kitchen - David and Henry laughing at some in-joke, both with their shirtsleeves rolled up and hands covered in soap suds - and then back to the couch, to Emma curled up beside her; to Regina sitting opposite them. “It’s nice to all spend time together again.”

Emma just hums in agreement, meeting Regina’s eyes briefly and then darting away again.

“It is nice,” Regina agrees, smiling a little.”I know Henry likes seeing his aunt and uncle - “ All three of them let out small, inane giggles; all three heads turn towards the kids’ bedroom, where Neal is clutching his toy monkey and Ruthie is sucking her thumb. _Aunt and uncle,_ and will that ever fail to make them laugh? “And you, of course.”

“And we love having him,” Snow smiles earnestly. “You know, while he’s still here…”

“Yes,” Regina cuts her off, slightly louder than intended. “Yes, of course, although that’s still - a while away - “

“Months,” Emma nods fervently, two loose strands of hair bouncing against her cheek. “Don’t worry, mom, he’s not gone yet.”

Snow looks between them, her face doing something altogether unreadable before finally settling on _kind._ “I know that, Emma,” she says quietly, her hand covering Emma’s white knuckles gently. “Although I’m not sure you two do.”

“That’s -” Emma starts to protest just as Regina opens her mouth to add,

“Honestly, you’re - ”

They both stop, a little foolish.

Snow watches them both.

When it becomes clear that neither of them is going to break the silence - Regina has fixed her glare on a slightly scuffed edge of the rug under her feet, and Emma is staring at her own lap with a stubborn determination - Snow sighs, and stands up.

“I’m going to take the trash out,” she says, immediately waving Emma away. “No, no, you stay sitting down… Regina?” She turns casually, gesturing towards the door. “Mind giving me a hand with the doors?”

Regina lifts her head slowly, and stares Snow down until she flushes, gestures vaguely at the box of paper and cardboard waiting by the door to the stairwell. On the couch, Emma is smirking slightly _meanly_ at her knees, like at least it’s not _her_ that’s being corralled in this altogether-too-obvious manner -

“Sure, Snow,” Regina says, rolling her eyes and getting to her feet. “I’ll help you with the _doors.”_

*

They make it all the way to the end of the hallway before Snow snaps.

“I’m really glad you’re here, Regina,” she says brightly, face almost hidden by the towering pile of boxes and papers.

Regina snorts. “Oh really?”

“ _Really_ ,” Snow insists, as they start making their way down the stairs. “You know, I _had_ noticed that Emma hadn’t been...seeing you as much, since she moved in with us - ”

“How is that working, anyway?” Regina interrupts, fingers tight on the bannister. “Emma still happy sharing a bunk bed with her one-year old sister?”

Snow winces slightly. “She’s on a fold-out camp bed in the kids’ room - ”

“Oh, _much_ better - ”

“We offered her our bed! She wouldn’t take it!”

Regina huffs out a laugh. “No, I don’t suppose she would.”

“And _that_ wasn’t my point, Regina,” Snow says a little too sharply for Regina’s liking. They’ve reached the downstairs hallway now, and Snow steps aside to let Regina pull open the outside door. Biting wind and flurries of snow blow in at them, and they lean towards each other almost on instinct as they start inching down the sidewalk to the trash carts.

“What was your point, then?” Regina asks, hauling open the lid to the oversized recycling cart and stepping back to let Snow empty her box of old cereal boxes, newspapers and envelopes inside.

“My _point_ was…” Snow turns to face Regina directly, her face oddly still in the cold air. “Whatever happened when Emma left Killian - Hook - when she left him, I mean…” she pauses, eyes searching Regina’s face. “I’m glad you’re back with her.”

Regina’s “I’m glad, too,” escapes her on an exhale before she’s quite aware of- what she’s admitting to -

Abruptly, she turns her back, stalks back towards the front door. Snow hurries after her, empty recycling box clattering uselessly at her knees as she runs - “Regina. _Regina_!”

“Let’s get back inside,” Regina says mechanically, fingers fumbling to unlock the door, suddenly numb with cold -

Snows fingers close around her wrist, warm and gentle. “Regina.”

“ _What_?” Regina snaps, turning on her - for a second, she half expects to see Snow White flinching away with an open, fearful gasp -

Snow just looks at her, calm and steady. “Regina when I said _back with her,_ I meant… “

“It doesn’t matter - “

“You remember what I said, about Emma needing someone to talk to - needing a friend - ”

“I remember,” Regina nods, turning uselessly back towards the door. “Of course that’s what you meant - ”

“Regina, can I ask you something?”

Regina’s still trying to unlock the front door, _damn it,_ but her fingers are clumsy and Snow is still looking at her with this terrifying, _understanding_ warmth in her eyes -

“Regina?”

Regina closes her eyes. Drops her hand from the door. Knows, suddenly, what’s coming. “What?”

“Are you in love with Emma?”

The six words - spoken with such careful, ringing clarity - cut into Regina’s throat, drying up whatever protest she’d been about to utter on instinct. For a few long, long seconds, she just stares at the still-locked door, and fights the urge to aim a kick at its hinges. _Like that would do anything._

When she finally dares to look back up, Snow is still watching her with a careful, held-back kind of knowing look.

Regina sighs. _“_ Snow, I…”

She doesn’t know what she’s going to say - try to apologise, probably - but Snow cuts her off with a rapid, almost jerky shake of the head. “It’s okay!” she says quickly, her voice teetering on the edge of a smile. “ _Regina,_ it’s...more than okay.”

_Okay._  

So not...quite the fire and pitchforks Regina had occasionally entertained in her more self-pitying daydreams, then.

“Okay,” she repeats, dully. “Really?”

Snow blinks, mystified. “Of _course_ , Regina,” she says, gripping her hand tightly in both her own for a second, then taking the keys from Regina’s numb fingers and unlocking the front door to finally let them step into the warmer hallway.

The door falls shut behind them with an echoing slam, and then Regina’s left twisting her hands uselessly together, looking at the muddy footprints on the floor, at the light switch on the wall, at the polished bannister - anywhere, _anywhere_ but at Snow’s too-knowing smile -

“Regina,” Snow says then, gently setting down her empty box and taking a carefully measured step towards Regina. “I think...you’re already family - ”

Regina rolls her eyes, needing suddenly to be anywhere but here. “ _Please_ , spare me the speech - “

“No - Regina - Regina, _listen_ to me, I think it’s the most wonderful thing, and if you took a second to _look_ around you, you could probably - ” Snow follows every step she takes, until they’re halfway up the staircase and she still hasn’t stopped talking. Regina wonders, fleetingly, why she even bothers.

“Probably what, Snow?” Regina asks finally, arriving on the landing outside the Charmings’ apartment.

“Probably - “ Snow gives her one last, searching smile. “See that it’s not so crazy to think it might work out.”

There’s a lump in Regina’s throat, and suddenly she’s not sure she can face whatever’s waiting for her inside the apartment; she pushes past Snow as gently as she can manage, and starts back down the stairs.

“...Regina? Regina, wait - ”

“Send Henry home whenever,” she chokes out, hardly daring to look back up the staircase - at what she _knows_ will be Snow’s confused, hurt expression - before wrenching the front door open and escaping out into the whirlwind of snowflakes with something that might, if anyone had been around to hear, have been a sob. 

*

**v.**

Six days.

_Six days,_ she stays home.

Alright, so two of those days are the weekend, and they hardly count, but...that still leaves four days of officially-registered sick days. Regina doesn’t think she’s ever called in sick so many days in a row before, but - well. Who’s going to reprimand her?

On the first day, Regina just answers emails from her bedroom, and sends Henry out to fetch a handful of documents that need signing. He delivers them together with a take-out bag of pastries from Granny’s, and she barely remembers to worry him about the sugar content before her fingers are tearing into an apple-glazed donut, her teeth sinking into the sticky, comforting dough. Regina eats her way through the whole bag that evening, sitting up and watching the fire burn low in the lounge; but when she finally forces her feet up the stairs and gets ready for bed, the yawning feeling in her stomach hasn’t abated even a fraction.

On the second day, Marian drops by with a soaking-wet Roland - “Your house was closer than ours!” - and thrusts him at Regina for a bath before dashing back to pick up his bike. Regina runs the tub, keeps one eye on Roland while he makes a mess of her shampoo bottles and gives himself a foam beard. When Roland’s had enough of bathing, Regina dries him off, rubbing his hair into spikes and wrapping his squirming, giggling body in a soft yellow towel; there’s something precious about those few minutes, utterly absorbed in someone so utterly unaffected by this _thing_ that’s spiralled so far out of control Regina thinks surely everyone must have heard by now. Later, after hot milk and a story book, when he’s napping with his face pressed against her shoulder, Regina makes several irate phone calls about why no one thought inform her that there’s a leak in the roof of the elementary school’s gym building.

On the third day, people are starting to ask questions. Regina ends up disabling the vibrate on her phone, before it slides straight off the kitchen counter. There _is_ something like a snowstorm holding the town hostage, in her defense; hardly anyone’s venturing outside unless they really _need_ to, the roads are covered in a thick layer of snow, the air is sharp and ringing with cold. Regina takes _some_ comfort in this fact, wrapped in a sweater a size too big for her, leaning her forehead against the frost-coated windowpane and watching the silent street down below.

On the fourth day, Henry tries - again - to get her to talk.

“Mom, I know you’re not sick.”

“I’m tired, Henry.”

“ _Mom_ \- “ she hears him rattle against the doorknob, feels sick to her stomach. “You can’t just lock me out!”

“I need to take a nap, alright?”

Henry lets out a frustrated, impatient kind of huff. “You said that three hours ago.”

“And I’m saying it now, _Henry -_ “

“Fine,” he half-yells, and Regina starts guiltily, half-tempted to throw the door open and pull him into a tight, warm hug - “ _Fine._ I’ll see you at six with dinner.”

He thuds down the stairs, stamping with every step, making the house echo with the angry sounds; Regina just lies back down on top of her covers, fully dressed, and wills her eyes to close by themselves.

On the fifth day, there’s a text from Snow asking her to _call me tonight please!!!_ Regina turns her phone off, and locks it away in her bedside cabinet. The embargo won’t last, of course - she’s still _Mayor,_ she’ll have to turn it back on sooner or later - but for now, with the evening stretching ahead of her with nothing but several glasses of scotch and a few hours of staring at the carpet in the lounge ahead of her, Regina walks away from her phone without even the energy to feel guilty about it.

On the sixth day, the house is silent when Regina wakes up - hungover and groggy after eventually stumbling up to bed well after two in the morning. Not that a silent house is _so_ unusual - Henry’s at school, she has no reason to expect noise - but for some reason, after five days of this, it’s getting to be just a little...too much, maybe, because when Regina walks in the kitchen she has to blink hard to dispel the sudden, fleeting image of Emma sitting at the table, kicking her feet against the tiles and grinning up at her from behind an oversized cup of coffee.

The day passes as every day this week has: slowly.

Regina cleans the kitchen. Regina replies to emails. Regina chooses a film and sits in front of it with unseeing eyes. Regina cooks herself dinner. Regina puts a box of leftovers in the fridge for when Henry comes back from an evening shift at work.Regina sweeps the kitchen again, just for good measure. Regina -

Regina is _about_ to change the sheets on every bed in the house, and maybe the curtains too, when for the first time in six days something happens that comes as a complete shock. There’s a knock at the door.

*

There’s a moment, before Regina - in a hastily-thrown on jacket, her bare ankles protruding from old gym shoes of Henry’s - reaches the front door. She can’t make out who’s standing outside yet, there’s just the faintest indication of a body waiting on the other side of the frosted glass, but…

She pauses, looks at the clock hanging on the wall.

Sixteen minutes past eight.

And she knows, quite suddenly, what’s about to happen; knows, in that immediate, _instinctive_ way that’s as true as magic, that she’s going to remember this specific time, on this specific date, for a very long time.

Regina opens the door, and Emma’s standing on her porch.

“Hi.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ....Home stretch, everyone.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, turns out trying to write fic while also going to grad school for writing is...Unwise. Lol. Here's the final chapter, enjoy, I'm so sorry everyone. A billion thanks to everyone who's commented/tweeted/chear-led along the way and as alwayys a super special thanks to Spark and Zohra for the reading & commenting & supporting. Love love love.

 

**i.**

“...Emma,” Regina says, blinking a little uselessly; Emma just smiles back at her from the porch, cheeks flushed beneath a grey knitted hat, breath coming in small puffs of condensation in the night air.

“Hi,” she says again, and Regina barely resists rolling her eyes.

“What can I do for you?” she asks instead, voice dropping a few notes in her register to a more formal, more _comfortable_ tone.

Emma blinks back at her. “I…” she stops to clear her throat. “Can I come in?”

“Of course -” Regina almost trips over her own feet in her haste to step back into the hall and let Emma inside - _what can I do for you, honestly, Regina -_ “Of course, come in.”

“Thanks.” Emma gives her a small, fleeting smile, and then - pulling off her hat and letting blonde curls tumble past her cheeks, shrugging off her red jacket in a fluidly familiar motion, smirking slightly as Regina toes off the gym shoes and tries to kick them discreetly aside -

 _Then,_ suddenly, it’s...easier. Easier, to invite Emma into the kitchen; easier, to make inane small talk about Henry’s plans for the holidays and Snow’s gift-buying message group while she bustles around with cups and teaspoons; easier, to sit down across from Emma and slide a cup of tea across to her. It’s easier - it’s just _easy_ , like the past six days never happened, like the last six months - the last six _years_ haven’t happened.

It’s just Emma, sitting in her kitchen, sipping tea. There’s a strange humming in Regina’s chest, like there’s a hummingbird trapped between spine and ribcage - but it’s not _unpleasant,_ it’s just... _there_ , sending warmth running across her shoulder-blades and down into the tips of her fingers. Emma’s chattering about Ruthie and Neal, and asking questions about Town Hall business in between questions about Henry’s college applications - no, they haven’t heard yet - and, ever since sitting down, she’s been making concentrated and direct eye contact with the teapot.

There’s a brief lull in the conversation after a few minutes, which Regina masks by getting up to dig out some cinnamon cookies and arrange them on a plate; when she returns to the table, and sets them down between them before sitting down again, Emma fixes her with wide, serious eyes.

Regina stops, mid-way through reaching for a cookie. Her throat runs dry. “What?”

“Where have you been, Regina?”

“I…” Regina blinks, twice. “Here.”

Emma’s face twists into an unhappy frown. “I mean - ” she breaks off, sighs in frustration. “I haven’t seen you, _no one’s_ seen you, Henry said you weren’t feeling good and your secretary said you’d called in sick - “

“Precisely,” Regina interrupts smoothly. “I haven’t been well. I took a few days off, it’s hardly unheard of.”

Emma’s eyebrows shoot up. “For you, it is,” she says, and Regina fights the urge to smile. _Touché_. “Come on, Regina, you’re...you can’t shut yourself off, okay?”

“I’m not,” Regina says automatically. “I’ve been sick.”

“ _Regina_ ,” Emma says, unhappy frustration making her sound for that split second so much like her mother that Regina has to laugh - the sound is incongruous in the still kitchen, and Emma’s eyes flicker hopefully back to Regina’s face. “What?”

Regina shakes her head. “Nothing,” she says, lightly. “You just...reminded me of someone.”

“All right,” Emma huffs. “Well. I just. I got worried, Regina, okay? You can’t just shut us out.”

“Us?” Regina asks, keeping her voice deliberately neutral; Emma flushes slightly.

“So mostly me,” she admits after a second or two, with a small, reluctant smile. “But - my mom and dad, too. And Henry, he… He won’t even tell me what he’s thinking, most of the time.”

“He’s seventeen, Emma,” Regina reminds her; Emma winces.

“God, don’t remind me. Seventeen…” An odd, strangely closed look has come over her face, and Regina thinks she knows why; thinks she knows that Emma is remembering another seventeen year old, in another life -

“He’s still a child,” Regina offers her, gently. “He hasn’t had to...grow up as fast as we did.”

“We?” Emma asks, her voice small.

_I don’t want to marry the king, I just want to be free -_

“We,” Regina confirms, reaching out to touch Emma’s wrist lightly with her hand; Emma’s pulse jumps under her two fingers, and for a full heart-stopped second that’s all there is, Emma’s heartbeat and Regina’s fingers against her wrist and the two of them, pulled towards each other, inch by inch, on opposing orbits -

Emma leans forwards to pick up a cookie, and the world starts spinning again.

“You never liked him,” she says, so casually that Regina struggles to keep up -

“Henry?” she asks, and then bites her tongue, because it’s _obviously not Henry_ they’re talking about now -

“Killian,” Emma says, the unhappy way her lips twist themselves around the sound belying her casual tone, and Regina takes a sharp breath in. “Hook.”

“Hook,” Regina nods, and then falls silent.

When she looks up again, Emma is still watching her expectantly, and - _okay,_ so she’s not going to get out of answering this one directly.

“No, she says slowly, cautiously - watching Emma carefully, watching the way her expression shifts from expectation to anticipation as she starts speaking - “No, you could say that.”

“Why?”

Regina closes her eyes briefly, clenching her hand into a fist on the table. “Well,” she says slowly, opening her eyes again and forcing herself to keep eye contact with Emma. “There were...a lot of reasons. The constant smell of fish and seaweed, for one thing.”

“Regina,” Emma cuts in, half-serious - but she’s smiling as she says it, and Regina allows herself a brief pause to savour the victory; a month ago, even that much would have been cause for a defensive, hurt-looking glare. “But really.”

“ _But really…_ ” Regina sighs. “”Look. I could - imagine you being with someone _I_ didn’t happen to get along with. Honestly, I don’t get along with too many people, so -”

“That’s not true,” Emma says immediately, as Regina had half-known she would; she’s leant forwards, and is looking at Regina so _reproachfully_ that Regina has to smile. “You’re so loved, Regina, so many people care about you, and - “

“I know,” Regina says quickly, soothingly. “I didn’t mean - anyway.”

She pauses, eyebrows raised, and waits for Emma to slump back in her seat, hands coming to rest protectively over her curved stomach. There’s a light flush to her cheeks, and for a moment Regina wants to let her deflect, wants to sit here and let Emma Swan tell her how much she’s loved and cared for, wants to allow Emma to steer the conversation away from herself all over again -

“ _Anyway,_ ” Regina says again, folding her hands tightly together. “I suppose when you get down to it, it’s just...The fact that you never seemed to have one _single_ reason why you loved him that wasn’t his happiness. His happy ending.”

Emma winces; Regina’s touched a nerve, and they both know it.

“Yeah,” she says quietly, half-ruefully. “Yeah, I guess you could say that.”

“I mean, really, Emma,” Regina says, her voice rising slightly - she’s warming to the idea now, _finally_ saying those things that she’s kept close to her heart for so many years, burning away at her resolve with acidic sharpness. “Why _I_ disliked him hardly matters now.”

Emma flinches, just barely. “Yeah,” she admits, with a small, humourless laugh. “Yeah, you’re right.”

“He’s gone,” Regina says, and sees the way Emma’s shoulders tense slightly - “ _Emma._ He is gone, you know that.”

“He could always come back,” Emma says, staring very hard at her cup of tea. “He left his stuff, his clothes...the Jolly Roger, everything.”

“Smee seems perfectly able to run the Roger,” Regina says quickly - it’s true, she’s seen the ship out in the harbour most days since Hook’s disappearance, and it’s never looked in better condition; they’ve even finally dispensed with that ridiculous flag. “I’m sure Hook left...adequate instructions.”

Emma’s face twists into an ironic smile. “He never did the organising,” she says quietly. “That’s not…” But then she falls silent, pensive; Regina sighs.

“Not what you’re worried about?” At Emma’s nod, Regina reaches out again, nudges Emma’s hand away from where she’s been nervously shredding a cookie into crumbs. “Emma, look at me. _Emma.”_

Emma looks up, her eyes wide and scared. “Yeah?”

“Even _if_ he came back to Storybrooke…” Regina pauses, weighing her words carefully on her tongue. “You’d be safe. Wouldn’t even have to see him.”

Emma’s whispered “Really?” comes out so quietly that Regina has to strain to hear it.

“Yes, really,” she says quietly, firmly. “He doesn’t get a place in your life if you don’t choose it. Your child is one thing, but even so - I don’t think we’ve ever had cause for a custody officer in this town, but _as Mayor_ I’m sure something could be arranged.”

A small, tired smile flits across Emma’s lips. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Regina echoes, and then stops, somewhat foolishly. They’ve arrived, now, at the night when Emma left Hook at their apartment - the night when Henry had gone to pick her up and brought her to Mifflin Street, to Regina -

A heavy pause hangs in the air between them, and for a few moments Regina is overwhelmed by the overwhelming impressions of _hand, hair, mouth_ \- the quiet noise Emma had made at the back of her throat, the half-whispered “Regina,” the sound lost against Regina’s skin -

She presses her lips tightly together, and forces her voice to remain steady when she says, “Well, if that’s all, Emma -”

“Regina - ” Emma looks up at her, surprised, as Regina stands and starts to clear away their barely-touched cups of tea, hands moving on autopilot.

“Thank you for stopping by,” she says automatically. “But I really haven’t been well, so…”

“ _Regina,_ ” Emma says again, voice pitching up into desperation - she’s reached out and clasped Regina’s wrist with one hand, and all of Regina’s world narrows down into that point of white-hot contact - “Please - ”

And suddenly, Regina is just...tired. Tired of deflecting; tired of keeping herself moving when all she wants to do is stop, and listen, and let go; tired of refusing to _want._

“Please what, Emma?” she asks, voice low.

“I…” Emma stares up at her, still hanging onto her wrist. “I want - ”

But she cuts herself off, just shakes her head; Regina lets out a shaky breath, and nods.

“It’s late,” she says, glancing unnecessarily at the oven timer. “You should… You don’t have to talk about everything all at once, Emma.”

Emma nods. “Thanks,” she says quietly, and slowly stands up from her chair  - Regina’s hand goes automatically to her waist, steadying her as she gets to her feet - Emma sways against her, hips and waist and shoulders warm against Regina’s side -

“We’ll talk,” Regina offers, carefully moving herself away and allowing Emma the space she needs to sip on her coat and scarf. “There’s...not much to do before Christmas. I could stop by the loft.”

Emma’s nodding before Regina’s even gotten a full sentence out. “I’d like that,” she says, voice kept so carefully controlled that Regina has to strain to hear the bubbling, disbelieving relief contained just below the surface. “I’d really like that.”

“Alright then,” Regina nods, and now they’ve reached the front door, now Emma has tugged her hat securely over her ears, now the door is open and an icy wind is blowing inside, making them both shiver for a moment -

“I’ll see you soon,” Emma says, with a quick, wide, smile -

And then she’s gone, and Regina is left to lean against her hallway mirror, staring at the opposite wall; she’s breathing so heavily, with such adrenalin coursing through her body, that it’s like she’s just run a marathon, like she’s just mastered a particularly powerful spell - like something, _everything,_ has changed.

Maybe it has, she thinks, going back to the kitchen and beginning the process of planning a week’s worth of lunches and dinners. Maybe it was always going to happen like this; not with the spectacle and noise of broken curses and pictures in an old, outdated storybook, but quietly, over cups of still-warm tea, with small smiles and half-told truths - and the promise of _talking again soon_ made over a plate of cinnamon cookies.

***

**ii.**

Regina throws herself back into work. There are meetings to attend, budget reports to chase, a new round of interns to interview - a hundred and one things that need her attention, and everything needs attention _now,_ before the holidays, before… _talking again soon._

By Friday evening, she’s the kind of bone tired that she hasn’t been since Henry was three; and when she stumbles home sometime after six o’clock, and finds Henry sitting on the staircase still in his coat and scarf, Regina has a full five seconds of thinking _I’m too tired for this._

And then she takes a look at her son’s face - his pale, wide-eyed face - and her heart sinks to somewhere behind her stomach.

“Henry?”

He looks up, and smiles at her - a tired, _tired_ smile. “Hey, mom.”

“Henry…” Regina hurries over and sits next to him on the bottom step. Takes one of his warm hands in both her frozen ones. “Honey? What’s wrong?”

Henry just shrugs. “Nothing.”

Regina just barely resists rolling her eyes. “Henry.”

“I just -” he reaches into his book-bag, and pulls out an envelope. A large, unopened, _seal-embossed_ envelope. “I got back from studying at Jamie’s, and...this was here.”

“Okay,” Regina says slowly, giving his hand a light squeeze. It would be dishonest to say she wasn’t mostly feeling relief right now - _it’s just a letter,_ and probably only a catalogue, at that _-_ but one look at the set line of Henry’s mouth tells her to keep that particular emotion well-disguised right now. “Do you think it might be -”

“The decision letter,” Henry says, nodding jerkily. “They said it’d be this week.”

_Oh._

Regina blinks, feeling more than a little foolish. “I see,” she says, Henry’s mood all week - monosyllabic, nervous, home far earlier than normal - suddenly making a lot more sense. “Well, I didn’t know that, why didn’t you tell me?” Henry shrugs one shoulder, and mumbled something barely audible into his scarf. Regina raises an eyebrow. “Henry?”

“You’ve had a lot going on,” he says, slightly louder this time - and wincing slightly when Regina stares at him.

“Henry!”

“You’ve been busy!” he says, his voice sliding up slightly into a higher register and cheeks turning pink when the pitchy words ring out in the silent hallway. “I...didn’t want to bother you, not with all the -”

But he stops there, and stares very determinedly at his lap. Regina waits patiently for ten seconds, and then nudges him with her knee. “With the?”

“All the stuff,” he shrugs, with all the expansiveness of a seventeen-year old. “Mom stuff.”

Regina stares at him, uncomprehending. “Mom stuff? Henry, your college letters are the most _mom stuff_ kind of letter I could possibly be interested in - “

“I didn’t mean that kind of mom stuff, I meant - ” Henry hesitates, and gives Regina what she can only classify as a _sidelong glance,_ and since when has her son been giving her s _idelong glances?_ “Stuff with my other mom.”

“...Right,” Regina manages, filing away _that_ particular conversation for another time and focusing back on the letter in Henry’s hand with superhuman effort. “Well. It’s here now, at least. I _suppose_ you were intending to tell me what it says, at least?”

Henry’s lips twist into a reluctant smile. “Actually…” he shifts to face her, the letter held out between them. “I was thinking. Could you tell me?”

Regina takes the envelope, her chest tight with sudden emotion. “Of course, _mijo._ ”

Henry smiles at that, leans in to let her put her arm around him. “Thanks, mom.”

“Right…” Regina manages, pressing a quick kiss to the top of his head before she turns her attention to opening the envelope. She starts to pull out the letter - and then pauses, her hand stilling mid-movement. “Henry, I want you to know that no matter what this - ”

“I know, mom,” he says, and Regina swears she can _hear_ him roll his eyes. “I know, just tell me -”

“Well,” she half-laughs, and pulls the letter out all the way. “All right. Dear Mr Mills...”

When she pauses, eyes flying ahead over the page, Henry tenses against her shoulder. “Mom?”

Regina looks up - looks at her son, her _grown-up_ little boy - and can’t speak. He’s looking at her with such a complicated mixture of fear and trust and impatience flashing across his face, and all she wants to do is look at him, and _keep_ on looking at him -

“ _Mom,”_ he says again, his voice breaking a little. “It’s...okay. Just tell me.”

“What?” Regina shakes her head, slightly dazed. “What do you mean?”

“There’s actually some really cool classes at the community college,” he says, with a half-smile so reminiscent of Emma that Regina’s almost thrown off guard. “Don’t worry about it, you can…” He reaches for the letter - but Regina twitches it out of his reach. “Mom!”

“Dear Mr Mills,” she says again, turning her attention back to the first paragraph. “Thank you for your application to the College of Arts and Science’s incoming freshman cohort. We have had a record number of early applications this semester - ” Henry slumps slightly against her shoulder, and Regina lets her knee bump reassuringly against his. “And apologise therefore in the slight delay in getting our decision letters back to you. Competition for each spot was exceptionally high - ”

“Mom, please, just…”

“And we were keen to make sure we made the right decision in every case,” Regina continues, raising her voice slightly. “I am delighted, therefore, to inform you that - “

“Mom!”

“Inform you that you have been accepted onto the Bachelor’s program in the Department of Anthropology, and look forward to welcoming you to the school this  - ”

That’s as far as she gets before Henry’s thrown his arms around her, and she has to laugh. “Mom!”

Regina nods, unable to speak as she hugs him back, her hands curled tightly around his shoulders. He’s almost vibrating with excitement, barely containing the energy long enough to hug her properly before he’s pulled back, face flushed with excitement, and tugged the letter out of her hands.

“Look there,” Regina says, quickly ducking her head and hiding her face behind her hair. “They’ve given you the travel grant you asked for. Three semesters in Europe, your junior year....”

Henry nods rapidly, eyes skimming over the page. “And a scholarship,” he says, reaching for the envelope and pulling out a few more forms and documents. “An academic scholarship for my tuition fees, mom, I didn’t apply for that!”

“They must have just decided you deserve it,” Regina smiles, running one hand over his head and smiling when his hands automatically go to fix his hair. “Which you do, Henry. You do.”

Henry smiles at that, still nodding slightly shakily. “I need to call mom,” he says, standing suddenly. “She made me swear she’d be second to know.”

“Of course she did,” Regina rolls her eyes, but stands up and starts unbuttoning her coat. “I’ll start on dinner, then. Your choice, what are you hungry for?”

“Anything,” Henry tells her, already halfway up the staircase. “I don’t care, we can get pizza or something - ”

Regina stares after him, hands on hips. “Henry Daniel Mills, you have just been accepted into your school of choice, with _two_ different scholarships, and you expect me to order take-out?”

There’s a slight pause, and then his head appears at the top of the staircase. “You said my choice,” he tells her, with an impish grin - and before Regina can think of a good retort to that one, he’s gone, his bedroom door slamming shut behind him.

*

“Henry?” Regina pauses, hand raised to knock gently on his bedroom door. “Henry, dinner’s on its way if you want to come down...”

She waits for a response; when it doesn’t come, she knocks again. “Henry?”

Nothing.

Regina sighs, and turns the handle to open the door a few inches. Henry’s inside, sitting on his bed with his back to her - she opens her mouth to remind him that it’s polite to acknowledge people when they knock on his door -

“I know, mom,” he says into the phone, and his voice sounds so _different_ that Regina freezes in the doorway, her hand still raised uselessly mid-knock. “I know, I just should have seen something -”

He cuts himself off mid-sentence, clearly listening to whatever Emma’s interrupted him to say, and Regina can see from the way his shoulders tense that he’s not liking what he’s hearing.

“I’m seventeen,” he says shortly. “I’m not a kid, you don’t have to talk to me like I’m a - yeah, _I know a lot of older people didn’t say anything either,_ I don’t care, _I_ should have, and - ”

There’s another slight pause, and Regina has almost managed to inch her way back out of the doorway when Henry bursts out with, “Well, that’s why I thought maybe I don’t have to leave right away.”

“Henry!”

He turns abruptly, eyes widening as the bedroom door swings fully open with the force of Regina’s involuntary shove. “Mom,” he says, and then, into the phone, “No, it’s mom, she’s… _No,_ I haven’t said this to her, I’m saying it to you - ”

Another pause. Regina watches him, watches the way he chews his lip, the way he closes his eyes and exhales loudly at something Emma says - and then he opens his eyes again, and stares directly back at her with something like - is that _defiance_?

“I just offered,” he says finally, his tone resolute. “I wanted to offer, and I’m still thinking about it. Okay?” He nods. “Yeah.” Another nod, and a fleeting smile. “Yeah, I know she wouldn’t, and don’t change the subject.” He grins up at Regina then, and she hastily attempts to arrange her expression into something approaching polite confusion. “Okay, okay...I gotta go anyway, we’re getting pizza...Yeah, I know, me too, but she said _my choice,_ so...I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah. Yeah. Love you. Night, mom.”

There’s a slight pause, and then he drops the phone into his lap. “Okay, you can come in now.”

“Henry - ” Regina crosses the room quickly, and sits down next to him. With the college admissions letter lying on his pillow, and his hands now curled around the phone in his lap, it’s oddly reminiscent of the conversation on the staircase that they had just twenty minutes earlier - but those twenty minutes couldn’t feel further away right now. “Do you want to tell me what that was about?”

Henry lifts one shoulder, drops it again. “Nothing.”

“Henry.” He just shrugs again, and Regina has to resist the urge to shake him. “You sounded kind of upset.”

“Yeah, I kind of was,” he mutters, half-under his breath, and Regina sucks in a sharp breath.

“Why?”

There’s a long pause. Regina keeps her eyes carefully trained on her knees, but for every second that passes she’s more and more aware of his presence next to her, aware of every breath, of each and every tiny gesture.

“I don’t know if I should leave,” he says finally, jerking his head towards the small pile of papers next to him. “I was thinking of taking a year out first.”

“No you weren’t,” Regina says, before she can stop herself; Henry tenses next to her, and she forces herself to take a slow breath before continuing. “I mean...You’ve never mentioned that to me before now.”

“Kind of a new thought,” Henry says, dropping his eyes to the phone in his lap again. “I was talking to mom - to Emma, and…”

“She didn’t suggest that,” Regina says, quickly. “Did she?”

Henry huffs out a quiet laugh. “No, she - doesn’t think it’s a great idea, _yet,_ but - ”

“But what, Henry?” Regina shakes her head, lost. “You… You _just_ got your acceptance - your travel grant, your scholarship, it’s everything you’ve been working towards - “

“It shouldn’t have been.”

The retort comes so quietly, so _surely,_ that Regina falters. “What?”

Henry shakes his head slightly, and speaks directly at his knees. “I got so busy, and I didn’t see…” He raises his head then, looks at her almost pleadingly. “Mom, I should have seen -”

“Seen what?” Regina runs one hand down his shoulder blades, tries to keep her voice neutral even though she’s pretty sure she knows what he’s talking about. “Henry?”

“She got so…” He shakes his head when his voice peters out into a whisper, and clears his throat before starting again. Regina almost reaches for his hand, but keeps her fingers locked into a fist against her skirt; he doesn’t need interrupting right now. “She got so _different,_ and I didn’t _see_.”

Regina’s tongue feels heavy against her teeth; she can barely bring herself to say what she know she needs to - what she knows is the truth. “None of us saw.”

“She’s my _mom,_ ” Henry says - and then, when her hand tenses against his back - “No, I didn’t mean - I don’t mean I know her _better_ , or some stupid blood thing, just…”

“She’s family,” Regina says simply, the lump in her throat making the words sound breathier than she’d thought they would.

Henry nods miserably, leaning slightly against her arm. “Mom?”

“Yes, _mijo_?”

“Did you know?”

Regina closes her eyes. “Know what, Henry?”

“That he was…” Henry makes a sudden, jerky movement with both hands, like he’s trying to shove some unwelcome thought as far away as possible from himself, and _god,_ Regina wishes she could do it for him. “That he was still. Like that.”

 _Still._ Regina almost has to bite back a laugh, because hasn’t that always been the argument? That he’s changed, that he’s grown, that he’s a hero now and _heroes are good -_ arguments _she’s_ never had much ammunition against, sharing a family with Snow White and a son with the Savior who was born to break her curse -

“Everyone thought he changed,” she says eventually, keeping her voice deliberately even. “He _did_ change, Henry, I know Emma wouldn’t want you to think the last five years have been _awful_ -”

“But he -” Henry’s mouth is twisted into an unhappy grimace, and Regina can almost _see_ his thoughts as he grapples with something far murkier than _good_ and _bad._ “Emma was hurting, and I never saw, I couldn’t _help_ her because I didn’t even _see_ it -”

“Henry, let me make one thing very clear,” Regina interrupts him firmly, taking his hand in hers and waiting until he reluctantly looks up to meet her eyes. “It’s not your responsibility to help everyone, and it’s never your fault if you can’t, okay?” Henry shrugs, and she lifts one hand to his chin. “Okay, Henry?”

“Okay,” he says reluctantly; Regina can tell his heart isn’t quite in it, but it’s a start. “I just wish…”

“I know,” Regina says gently, half-smiling when he leans his cheek into her hand. Her brave, stubborn boy.

“And I feel really stupid,” Henry mumbles, “About all the time I just went out on the boat instead of actually hanging out with mom on the weekends.”

“ _Henry,_ ” Regina says, exasperated - but he’s only seventeen, and she remembers how it was to feel useless at seventeen. “There is nothing stupid about that, or selfish. You don’t need to feel bad about enjoying those weekends, Henry. They were good for you.”

“Not for Emma.”

“You didn’t know that.”

“I should have known that,” he shoots at her, chin lifted stubbornly.

“ _Emma_ didn’t know that,” Regina fires back, equally stubborn. For a few seconds, Henry just glares at her - and then he sighs, sounding very world-weary and tired, and lets her pull him against her shoulder.  

***

**iii.**

“Come _on,_ Regina!”

“I’m coming, I’m coming…” Regina locks the car with the touch of a button, and takes a minute to safely store the key back in her purse; by the time she’s done smoothing down her coat, Roland is already tugging impatiently at her scarf, and she lets him take her hand with a laugh. “Alright, then.”

“Yes!” Roland nods, cheeks tinged red under the knitted cap they’d settled on after a full ten minutes of discussion, and (in Regina’s case) calling up the weather report three separate times just to confirm that, yes, it is still snowing. Roland’s eyes are flashing brightly in the snow-swirled evening air, and Regina squeezes his warm little hand reassuringly as they join the throng of families heading towards the elementary school. She nods hello to a few faces as they pass – Ruby, taking tickets and giving directions; Mulan, manning the coat check – but Roland just tugs on her hand, pulling her further and further inside.

The warmth hits Regina like a physical blow as they enter the school hall, and she has to stop, blinking in the sudden neon brightness. And then –

“There they are!” Roland crows, pointing towards a stall near the doors. Regina squints in the direction he’s pointing in, smiling as she recognises Henry and Marian behind the stall, both waving furiously.

“Hey, mom!” Henry grins, as they draw nearer. He’s got a pair of reindeer antlers perched on top of his head, and Regina has to laugh. “What?”

“Just admiring the choice of headwear,” she says, dodging when he swipes at her carefully-combed hair. “Hey!”

“Rule number one of the stall,” Marian tells her seriously, picking up a giggling Roland and letting him cling to her neck like a monkey. “We don’t mock the antlers.”

“Got it,” Regina nods.

“Got it, Ro?”

“Got it,” Roland mumbles against his mother’s neck.

“Thanks for bringing him,” Marian smiles at Regina. “Really appreciate being able to get here early.”

“Of course, of course…” Regina waves her off; she looks around the hall, already crowded with families and couples browsing for last-minute Christmas gifts and ornaments. “How’s everything going?”

“Good!” Henry tells her, with a proud grin. “We’ve sold two dozen candles already.”

Regina smiles, reaching out to touch his wrist. “Impressive.”

“We’re gonna raise so much for the animal shelter,” Henry grins, looking around at the hall. “Snow and Gramps are gonna be happy.”

“ _So_ proud,” Marian nods, ruffling Henry’s hair and giving Regina a grin when he pulls a face. “Of you, for helping set everything up. Especially when you’re so busy with school.”

Henry ducks his head, cheeks blushing slightly under the combined attention of Regina, Marian and Roland. “It’s fine,” he says, half-rolling his eyes at their matching proud expressions and reminding Regina for a second so strongly of Emma that she has to smile. “What?”

“Nothing,” Regina says quickly, taking an unnecessary step back and unwinding her scarf from around her neck. “So, is everyone here already, or…”

She doesn’t miss the look that passes between Marian and Henry at that, but chooses to ignore it in favour of unbuttoning her winter coat. It’s warm in the hall, with dozens of people moving to and fro between the stalls, and besides – it’s – she’s warm.

“Everyone?” Marian raises her eyebrows slightly, and is Regina imagining the suggestive tone to her voice? “Sure, people are pretty much all here now…I think David said something about getting Ruthie something to eat, and Neal’s running around with the other kindergarteners…Snow was supervising the Santa Clause line, last time I saw her…”

“Okay,” Regina nods, forcing back an impatient follow-up question. “I’ll…go say hello, then…”

“ _Everyone’s_ run back to the loft for the last batch of brownies,” Henry mumbles, his eyes directed at the cash register as he unnecessarily moves around a few quarters. Regina stares at him, feeling the floor drop away from below her boots – but then he smirks up at her from behind his hair, and she settles on faint annoyance instead.

“Thank you,” she says, as tartly as she can manage. “I’ll just…browse, then. Roland?”

“I’m good here,” Roland says, from underneath the stall – when Regina stoops down to find him, she sees that he’s dug out Marian’s phone from her purse and is concentrating on some kind of game involving firing animated birds out of cannons.

“He’s good here,” Marian grins. “We’re good here, you go…browse.”    

This time, Regina definitely isn’t imagining the suggestive lilt – but she just nods, with as much dignity as she can muster, before turning on her heels and fleeing towards the classroom that Snow’s set aside for Santa’s Grotto.

*

She has to hand it to Snow; the school is utterly transformed. There are paper snowflakes and Christmas ornaments hanging from every window, Christmas wreaths adorning every classroom door, and lashings of fake snow along most of the blackboards and art displays; Regina even spots a few red-breasted robins twittering madly in the trees outside, and wonders for a brief moment if Snow actually got them there intentionally (and, honestly, she wouldn’t be surprised).

When Regina reaches the classroom marked “ _Santa’s Grotto!!!”_ in red-and-gold glitter glue, she takes a moment to find Snow among the crowd of excited children, all of them – from the two-year-olds being held up by their older siblings, to the twelve-year-olds trying desperately to look like they’re _too cool_ to be there – babbling constantly, jostling each other for a better look at the grotto. And then –

“Ho, ho, ho!”

 _Then,_ Regina has to clamp a hand over her mouth to stop from laughing out loud, because a very white-haired-looking David has stepped out from behind the easel, gloved hands resting on a pillowcase belly and eyes twinkling behind his cotton-candy beard.

“Look everyone!” Snow says, and now Regina wonders how she could have missed her – she’s so unmistakeably _Snow-ish_ in her Christmassy ensemble, complete with mistletoe earring pendants and a sparkling red dress. “Santa Clause is back!”

The children cheer, David-as-Santa waves genially, and Snow claps her hands together three times to signal a return to order; immediately, her students fall into a jostling line, all of them blinking excitedly at the chance to talk to Santa Clause.

Regina waits until Snow has overseen the first few children’s turn to talk to David, whisper a wish or two in his ear, and be given a wrapped present in return, and then waves discretely from her position of relative safety by the door. Snow’s face lights up, and she motions at Regina to _stay there_ while she delegates the line-wrangling to a slightly shell-shocked looking Ashley.

“Regina!” Snow finally says, hurrying over and pulling Regina back out into the hallway. “You came!”

 “Of course I did,” Regina says, attempting a casual smile. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“I didn’t mean that,” Snow smiles quickly, pressing a warm hand to Regina’s tense wrist. “We just hadn’t seen you in a while, that’s all.”

Regina shrugs, stuck for an answer, because she doesn’t really have one; Snow’s right, it _has_ been a while, and the last time they spoke –

_Regina, can I ask you something?_

“We’ve been busy,” she says, finally, and Snow just smiles at her.

“I’m just glad you’re here now,” she tells her, and Regina has to smile at the overwhelming _sincerity_ dripping from every syllable. “And Henry! He’s been so helpful all day, helping Marian with the candles, keeping Ruthie entertained, fetching and carrying for Em – for all of us, and…”

She tails off, cheeks burning bright red under Regina’s gaze, and for a full ten seconds Regina just lets her _squirm_ in the hole she’s dug for herself. And then, impatient if only because it’s actually a little worrying how quickly Snow’s gone pale as a sheet, she sighs, and asks, “Where is Emma, anyway?”

“Oh!” Snow beams at her. “I actually don’t know, she had to run back to the house for…”

“Brownies, yes, Henry said,” Regina nods, feeling a little foolish when she sees the way Snow raises her eyebrows with _just_ enough smugness to be visible to the naked eye. “Well, if you see her, tell her – “

Regina cuts herself off, swallowing harshly. Snow just looks at her, eyes bright and smiling, and all at once Regina feels fifteen again, awkward and coltish in her suddenly-grown limbs, squirming under her mother’s piercing stare –

“Tell her we need to talk,” she says, finally. And then, tripping over her words in her haste to sound at least a _little bit_ less transparent – “About Henry going away to school.”

“I’ll do that,” Snow says, looking faintly amused.

“Good,” Regina tells her forcefully. She’s already half-turning away, thinking about looking for – thinking about _looking around_ the school fair some more. “Make sure you do.”

“I will…make sure to pass on the message _about Henry_ ,” Snow tells her, and this time Regina doesn’t even try to come up with an appropriately-intimidating retort; she just turns away with an eye-roll, and flees.

*

Twenty minutes later, Regina’s starting to run out of patience. She’s made a round of the craft fair, and the choir outside on the bandstand, and the punch stalls, _and_ circled back to watch Henry and Marian feverishly selling candles, and… There’s nothing else to look at, _nothing else to distract herself with,_ and it’s only been twenty minutes.

Now, for the first time, Regina’s starting to regret her decision to power through every last remaining work deadline before the holidays; if she had even the smallest to-do list left unchecked, she could make her excuses, head home and lose herself in work for a few hours, and then tomorrow it would be time to put up the Christmas tree with Henry and everything would keep on going as it’s always kept on going, but now… _Now,_ she’s stuck, wandering around and around the elementary school’s Christmas Fair, being jostled and pushed past by dozens of children and families, having to _smile_ and _make small talk_ with what feels like _every last person in town except Emma –_

Regina almost doesn’t look up in time.

She’s walking down the hallway leading back out to the bandstand, cup of hot cider in hand, focusing on her feet and _trying_ not to stand on any toddlers or guide dogs –

“Regina! _”_

“Emma –” The word escapes Regina’s lips before she’s quite finished slowing to a stop, before she’s even looked up. When she does look up, Emma’s already watching her, eyes bright and hopeful beneath a knitted beanie, lips a little chapped in the cold but curved into a small, careful smile.

“I was meaning to –” she starts, just as Regina says,

“I was looking for you –”

They both break off, a little foolishly. Regina can hear the blood rushing through her ears in time with her heartbeat, can _feel_ the pulse in her wrists like a live, wild thing. Her mouth has run dry, and she realises in one terrifying, swooping second that she has _absolutely no idea how to do this._

There’s a long, horribly awkward pause.

And then, eyes dropping slightly to take in the cup of cider Regina’s still holding on to like a lifelines, Emma says, “I could do with one of those.”

“They’re back there,” Regina says automatically, gesturing feebly down the hallway; Emma raises her eyebrows, and tilts her head, and waits for the penny to drop. “Right. We’ll…go there, then.”

“We will?” Emma asks, her voice teasing; but she smiles, and starts to follow Regina back towards the drinks stalls. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Regina manages to echo, and _god,_ is that what her voice sounds like all the time?

They make it about halfway down the hallway.

“Emma, _there_ you are!” Snow looks incredibly harried as she rushes at them out of nowhere, her mistletoe earrings swinging wildly. “Stacie-Ann is refusing to go on stage and we’re due to start in fifteen, she says she won’t talk to anyone but the _Sheriff_ for some unearthly reason – oh!” Snow stops, squeaking slightly. “Regina!”

Emma rolls her eyes at Regina, but manages a smile. “Hey, mom, slow down.”

“I meant to pass on a message,” Snow says, looking between the two of them. “But I see you found each other.”

“Yeah, Regina was just buying me a drink,” Emma grins, nudging Regina in the ribs when she tenses. “Right?”

“A drink?” Snow’s smile flickers, unsure, as she glances down at Emma’s bump, unmistakeable now even beneath layers of knitwear and her red leather jacket. “Oh, Emma, is that a good idea?”

“Hey, drinking for two, remember?” Emma teases; when Snow’s smile falters even more, and Regina’s about to interject, she shrugs, and grins. “ _Kidding,_ mom, but one cider isn’t gonna pack too heavy a punch.”

“Of course not,” Snow smiles, too quickly – Regina, glancing sideways at Emma, sees her own carefully-held easy grin slip just for a second.

“What’s this about...Stacie-Ann?” she asks, directing the attention back at Snow and letting her knuckles graze against Emma’s between them.

Snow brightens, visibly relieved; next to Regina, Emma takes in a slow, reassuring breath and bumps her fingers lightly against Regina’s hip, unmistakeably signalling _I’m okay._

“Stacie-Ann is _supposed_ to be playing the Angel Gabriel,” Snow says, voice strengthening with every syllable now that she’s back on track. “And I think she has stage-fright.”

“And she wants to talk to Emma?” Regina can’t help the surprise that enters her voice. “…Why?”

“I’ve been helping out some,” Emma says quietly; when Regina turns to stare at her, she flushes a little defensively. “Just a few evenings! Running lines, fixing costumes, whatever…Kept me busy, you know?”

 _Keeping busy._ Regina thinks, a little guiltily, of the piles of finished and filed paperwork sitting in her office; under Emma’s stare, she just says, “Makes sense.”

Emma gives her a small smile; Regina nods a little, feeling her lips lift in a responding smile. Emma’s eyes are fixed on hers, bright and sparkling.

“… _Anyway,_ ” Snow says; they both jump. “Emma, I’m really sorry, but –“

“Pep talk,” Emma says, the words coming out decidedly more _breathy_ than Regina thinks she’s ever heard her. “Got it. Regina – ”

“Later,” Regina nods, waving her off and then regretting the decision to wave about half a second later; Snow tugs Emma towards the classroom designated as the fourth graders’ dressing room, and Regina watches them go with one hand uselessly half-raised and still waving.

*

“Evening, Your Majesty.”

Regina starts up; she’s been leaning against the wall for the past ten minutes, staring moodily into her rapidly-cooling cup of cider and trying to decide if she can blame the cup for any (or all) of this…this _situation._

“David,” she manages, utterly monotone; then she catches herself, and forces a smile. “How are you?”

“Oh, I’m alright.” David – de-bearded and de-robed, his hair still looking decidedly talcum-powdery – has leant against the poster board next to her, hands shoved into his pockets and face turned towards her. “Tired out, but alright.”

“I saw you granting wishes in there,” Regina says, smiling a little. “You looked like you were enjoying it.”

“Sure, yeah,” David laughs. “But it’s _exhausting._ Having to be _on_ for every kid, and you can’t let down any of them, you can’t just fake it, you actually have to _really listen_ to every single wish, and – “

“Listening.” Regina raises an eyebrow. “You’re right, that does sound terrible.”

“I said _exhausting,”_ David says, yawning for (she assumes) effect. “Not terrible, just…exhausting.”

Regina has to laugh, then. “That’s fair.”

“Oh, hey, did Emma find you?”

There’s a slight bump in the wall she’s leaning on, digging in just above the small of her back, and David’s change of topic has come so quickly, so _unguardedly,_ and that’s… The pressure against her back is all Regina knows how to focus on right now. She shifts, trying to get comfortable against the wall – cider spills over her hands, and she flinches, the heat scalding hot against her fingertips –

 _“Shit_ –”

“Here, let me –” David takes the cup out of her hands quickly, setting it down a safe distance away before coming back to lift Regina’s hand up for a closer look. There’s a small area that’s raised an angry red from the cider, but it’s already fading to pink in the cool air; Regina has to smile, though, watching him _inspect_ the burn with all the serious, totally committed focus of a parent.

“I’m okay, Charming,” she says, gently pulling her hand away. “Thanks.”

“Sure? I can get you an ice pack if you want –“

“ _David,”_ Regina cuts him off, half-laughing. “I’m not _five._ ”

“Right,” he stops, grinning a little guiltily. “Course you’re not.”

Regina just smiles, shaking her head, and stoops to pick up the offending cup of cider (she can at least blame it for _something,_ after all). When she looks up, she registers for the first time that the hallways are all-but deserted. “Where is everyone?”

David glances up. “Right! The play! Henry’s saving you a seat, come on.”

And, when he takes off without a second’s notice, Regina has no choice but to drop her cider in the nearest window ledge, and hurry after him.

*

“Where were you?” Henry hisses, when they finally make it to the back of the auditorium. “It’s about to start!”

“I lost track of time, sorry,” Regina whispers, leaning past him to wave quickly at Roland and Marian before taking her seat. There’s already an expectant kind of hush in the auditorium, underpinned by the buzz of dozens of half-whispered conversations; the stage is still dark and empty, save for a few papier-mâché stars and comets.

Behind them, David is taking his seat next to Snow; Regina hears him ask, quietly, “Everything all right?”

“Stacie-Ann’s still nervous,” Snow whispers back, sounding exhausted. “But I think Emma got through to her, I _hope_ she has…”

“You’ve done great,” David whispers back; feeling strangely like she’s eavesdropping on something private, Regina turns her attention back to Henry.

“Have you seen Emma?”

“She’s helping out backstage,” Henry tells her, shrugging. “Something about an angel getting stage-fright…”

“Stacie-Ann,” Regina nods. “I know, I was there when Snow came running after Emma –”

“So you know where she is,” Henry cuts in, smirking a little when she falls silent.

“Well,” she says, clearing her throat. “I just meant…Have you talked, at all? About…school, or – or anything?”

Henry raises his chin to look directly at her, one cheek dimpling with a half-crooked smile. “Anything?”

“Yes, anything,” Regina shrugs, nettled; she’s not sure she approves of the way he’s smirking, almost like he’s in on some really funny joke that she’s still completely clueless to.

“You know, it’s funny,” Henry says, looking straight ahead and still smiling that infuriating half-smile. “She asked me the same thing about talking to _you_ , like, half an hour ago.”

“ _Henry_ –” Regina’s voice rises unconsciously, and Henry just makes a shushing gesture at the stage; Regina cuts herself off, and turns towards the stage, resolving to talk to Henry _straight after the play,_ and to put an end to this whole… _everyone smiling so knowingly all the time_ thing as soon as possible.

And then the curtain’s rising and the lights are dimming, as the school band starts up a slightly tinny rendition of a familiar Christmas medley...

Regina wishes she could say, later, what happened in the play. She would be lying. Or at least – she would be guessing, cobbling something together about the nativity and the carols and the angel who looked nervous but smiled _really widely_ when everyone clapped for her… There was something about the shepherds, and a star leading them to a baby in a manger, sure; after watching Henry’s school plays for the last twelve years, Regina could probably even make a passable guess at which carols were likely to sound more or less in-tune.

But all she knows is this: halfway through the first carol, the door closest to their row of seats opens slightly, and Emma slides into the aisle seat next to Regina. Their knees knock together –

Emma breathes out a whispered “Sorry – ”

Regina shakes her head minutely, eyes fixed resolutely on the stage as Emma settles in her seat, takes off her beanie (blonde curls springing free against pale neck) and shrugs off her jacket (pale grey scarf and white knitted sweater) and rests her hands in her lap (fingernails painted a deep blue, each one like a splash of night against faded denim).

And then Emma shifts slightly, and now her knee is resting against Regina’s, and their legs are all-but pressing against each other, and Regina can feel her body heat through the layers of shirts and sweaters, and she’s… She is _right there._ Every time Emma breathes in, Regina feels the responding motion travel up her arm and down her spine, brushing against each individual vertebra before settling somewhere near the pit of her stomach.

The play carries on, and Regina keeps on watching it, unseeing. Every time Emma claps, she claps; every time Emma laughs, she laughs, too; and the whole time, she is intensely, intimately aware of the way Emma’s leg presses back against hers every time she shifts in her seat.

Halfway through the play – Regina guesses it _must_ be about halfway, there’s a whole comedy bit involving three cardboard doors and three tiny innkeepers – she moves away slightly, creating a gap of a few inches between her leg and Emma’s, and forces herself to pay attention, _properly,_ to the action happening on stage.

“ _No room, no room, you’ll have to try another door!”_

 _“But we’ve tried all of them_!”

As the kids holding the doors do a complicated switching-places dance – to appreciative laughter from everyone in the audience, and a slightly forced echoing laugh from Regina – she feels Emma shift closer to her, bringing her leg back to its position pressed against Regina’s.

Regina swallows, feeling the heat settles against her skin all over again, and that’s…

That’s pretty much the last thing she’s concretely aware of before the lights go up and everyone starts clapping.

*

Bright lights. Loud, carrying applause. The sound of dozens of benches being scraped back, hundreds of parents jumping enthusiastically to their feet.

“Regina?” Regina blinks, and turns her head so quickly to the side that she feels the bones in her neck groaning in protest. Beside her, Emma smiles faintly. “Help me up?”

“Of course.” Of course – the play’s finished – everyone’s standing to clap – Regina shakes her head slowly, trying to clear the sense of it being filled with warm water. Her balance feels completely off, but she manages to slide one steadying arm around Emma’s waist, bracing her legs slightly against Emma’s answering weight when she gets to her feet. “Everything all right?”

Emma sways against her, both hands going unconsciously to protect her curving bump. “Just off balance,” she grins, rolling her eyes a little. “Centre of gravity’s all off.”

Regina wants to smile, but can’t quite manage it, because _how can Emma be making jokes at a time_ _like this?_ And then she doesn’t want to smile at all, because surely – well, maybe – maybe Emma doesn’t see a reason not to make jokes. Maybe Emma’s feeling fine, and normal, and _happy,_ and after all hasn’t that been all Regina’s wanted, for these last few months; these last few years? Maybe there’s nothing else to wait for; maybe this strange…family unit is going to be how things are between them. Emma and Regina: a family, a _balanced_ state of being with their son the centre of gravity around which their relationship orbits. Isn’t that enough?

“Regina?” Emma nudges her, biting her lip. “Okay?”

“I’m fine,” Regina smiles blankly, heart hammering sickly against her ribcage. Suddenly all she wants to do is go home, crawl under her covers and _sleep,_ sleep until she forgets every touch, every look, every _kiss –_ well, just the one kiss – everything that can be explained away as the centre of gravity being _all off_ for the last few weeks –

Emma lifts one hand to her chin, her fingers warm and gentle. Turning Regina’s head slightly so that they’re looking right at each other. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s _wrong,”_ Regina snaps, suddenly waspish. “I’m fine, Emma, really.”

Emma bites her lip, eyes clouding over as she watches Regina stare back at her. “We still haven’t…” her hand drops away from Regina’s chin, leaving the skin feeling strangely cold, and bereft. Regina glances around; the auditorium is slowly emptying around them, their families all conspicuous in their silent retreat and sudden absence. “We still haven’t _talked,_ Regina.”

“Nothing to talk about,” Regina says quickly. “I’m glad you’re doing better now, that’s all.”

Emma’s forehead creases in confusion. “Doing better –?”

It takes Regina a supreme effort to shrug casually. “Since your – breakup.”

“My breakup, right,” Emma nods, a little blankly. “That’s really not…been on my mind so much, recently.”

“Exactly,” Regina smiles, half-turning towards the door already. “You’ve got your parents, you’ve got your son, you’ve got a place to live and a family who loves you, and you don’t… You don’t need to worry about anything except resting now. Focusing on yourself.”

Emma’s staring at her, her forehead still knitted into lines. “And you,” she says, so quietly that Regina almost misses it.

“What?”

“And I’ve got you,” Emma repeats, her hand reaching out like she’s thinking of taking Regina’s but then thinks better of it; instead she just drops it back to her side, her face suddenly open, vulnerable. “Right?”

Regina’s throat feels tight. “Of course you’ve got me,” she manages, taking three small steps towards the exit.  She doesn’t look back, but somehow she _feels_ that Emma’s still looking at her with those big, scared eyes; feels the line stretched taut between them, like if she takes another step maybe the tension will finally be too much and she’ll snap free, spiralling into freefall. “Always,” she adds unthinkingly, the word slipping past her teeth before she’s even aware of making a sound, and she hears Emma’s answering sharp inhale.

“Regina – ”

Regina doesn’t turn; doesn’t react; just puts one foot in front of the other until she’s almost at the exit.

“ _Regina._ ”

She pauses at the doors, hand stilling on the handle. Her shoulders hurt with the effort it’s taking to hold herself steady.

There’s the sound of footsteps behind her, fast, unsure. “Regina, ask me what’s on my mind.”

Regina clenches her teeth, and counts slowly to five before shoving the doors open; noise and movement and a few gusts of icy wind rush towards her, and she can feel something wet on her cheeks, first hot and then burning cold as it freezes in the night air.

***

**iv.**

Regina lets the doors to the auditorium fall shut behind her, and starts moving slowly through the crowds still gathered in the elementary school parking lot. Indistinct shapes of people she knows appear in the fog as she walks towards the street, but she just keeps her eyes fixed on a non-existent horizon and her chin lifted up, and no one bothers her.

“Mom?”

Except, of course, for Henry. He’s at her side in an instant, falling into step beside her, and when he touches her arm lightly with one gloved hand Regina can feel her steps falter – and it’s tempting, _so_ tempting, to crumble now, to let him drive her home and forget about everything else –

But she can’t.

Because Emma Swan is still standing in the auditorium, dealing with…whatever the hell she took away from that mess of a conversation, and Regina…Regina can’t just walk away, can’t just wall herself off. She’s done that before, and it’s never gone well for anyone concerned.

So, instead, Regina takes a deep breath, and digs out her car keys from her purse. “Henry, can you drive Emma home?”

Henry slows to a standstill, forcing Regina to stop as well. His forehead is creased, and he’s looking at her like he doesn’t quite know what to make of this…strangely cool tone. “What?”

“Emma,” Regina repeats, her voice sounding awfully _hearty_ to her own ears. “She’s still in the auditorium, I think, can you drive back to the loft?”

“Sure,” Henry says, taking the keys from her carefully-still hand. “Are you okay?”

“I’m going to walk home,” she says crisply, dropping her hand quickly back to her side and balling it into a fist in her coat pocket. “I could do with some fresh air.”

“Mom…” Henry winces slightly, like he’s hesitating, and then pushes on. “Do you want some company?”

She has to smile at that. Her sweet, considerate boy – “No,” she says, gentler now. “Really, I think... I want to walk by myself a while, alright?”

“Okay,” Henry says, though he doesn’t sound happy about it. “I’ll…go see if Emma’s okay, then.”

“Thanks,” Regina manages. “I’ll see you at home, _mijo._ ”

The old nickname seems to reassure him that nothing’s _really_ wrong (which of course is what she’d been counting on), and he gives her a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek before peeling away to go look for Emma.

Regina walks on, head bent low against the wind that seems to have picked up in intensity the longer she’s been standing in it. Pretty soon, she’s left the elementary school behind, and now it’s just her, walking down dark and empty streets, the occasional lit-up Christmas ornament the only change in the landscape of snow-covered lawns and front yards.

There’s a hollow kind of beating feeling in the pit of her stomach, getting louder and more insistent with every step. Every time Regina blinks, she’s reminded of the auditorium – of the strange stillness, the careful quiet underneath the carols and the tinny music, the heat of Emma’s leg pressed against hers –

It feels like part of another life. All of it, all the way back to Emma in her living room the day she left Hook, the feeling of Emma’s lips crashing against hers –

Another life, another Regina Mills. Another Emma Swan, confused and conflicted and always, _always_ wanting to make everyone around her happy. And Regina won’t be that person. She _refuses_.

The snow has started seeping through her scarf now, running cold against her neck; she’s shivering with every step, but there’s something good about that, something _real_ that forces her to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

Regina arrives on the high street almost without realising how much time has passed;  her hands are clenched into icy fists in her coat pockets, and when she turns her head she feels her hair brush damply against her ears. _Time to get out of the cold, Regina._

She starts to turn towards Mifflin Street when –

Footsteps, running behind her –

“Regina – ”

_Really, had she expected anything else?_

“ _Regina,_ wait – ”

Regina waits. The footsteps slow to a halt behind her, and it’s only as she turns that Regina realises she’s stopped almost directly in front of Granny’s. The windows are thankfully dark, and there doesn’t seem to be anyone around; she’s alone, at least.

Alone – with Emma.

Emma, standing in front of her with her hands at her sides and her breath coming in short, fast puffs of condensed air.

“Regina,” she pants, out of breath. “God, you walk fast.”

“I didn’t realise I was being followed,” Regina replies, aiming her words fixedly at a point somewhere behind Emma’s left shoulder. “What’s wrong? I sent Henry to come find you – “

“Yeah, and he told me you were walking,” Emma shrugs. “So I walked too. Or _ran,_ did I mention you walk fast?”

“I’m not seven months pregnant,” Regina points out, and Emma huffs out a still-shaky laugh.

“I guess not,” she says, and then they’re silent again.

“Look,” Regina says eventually, when the silence grows too loud against her eardrums. “I don’t need you checking up on me, Emma, I’m _fine._ ”

“I know you are,” Emma says simply.

Regina shakes her head; she doesn’t want to be distracted now, she wants to say her piece and _send Emma home,_ and be _done_ with this – _thing_ that’s been happening for the last few months (the last few years).

“I meant, I don’t need you…worrying about my happiness,” she says, weighing each word carefully against her tongue before she continues. “I don’t _want_ you to feel responsible for that.”

“I – ” Emma looks completely lost. “What?”

“You need to focus on yourself,” Regina says, still stubbornly addressing the air behind Emma’s left shoulder despite all Emma’s attempts to make and hold eye contact. “And I’m _fine,_ so we really just need to talk about Henry’s college plans, but apart from that – ”

“What?” Emma cuts her off, sounding, for the first time in a long while, angry. _Good._ Anger is better than obligation; anger is better than debt. “Regina, I _want_ you to be happy.”

“I’m fine,” Regina repeats. “You don’t need to…”

“Need to?” Emma takes two slow, tiny steps towards her. “Regina?”

_God._

Regina closes her eyes briefly, and says, quietly, “You don’t need to force yourself into feeling something you don’t, Emma, I don’t…want you to do that for – anyone.”

There’s a long, _long_ pause.

And then Emma says, her voice holding back some unexpressed, trembling emotion, “Regina.”

Regina shakes her head, trying for a reassuring smile. “It’s none of your concern,” she says, quickly. “Please don’t worry about it, Emma.”

“ _Regina,_ ” Emma says again, her eyes wide with disbelief. “Were you… _listening,_ at all?”

“I – ” Regina cuts herself off, feeling oddly like she’s just taken one step too many down a long staircase, her stomach plummeting into her kneecaps at the sensation of falling. “When?”

“Ask me,” Emma says slowly. “What’s on my mind.”

Regina wants to laugh, because this is so, _so_ Emma, and she knows exactly what the answer will be when she says, “Fine. What, then?”

“You,” Emma says, to Regina’s absolute lack of surprise. Her face is open, and wide-eyed, and there’s snowflakes clinging to a few strands of her hair, and then she adds, “Only you, Regina,” and Regina’s world goes into freefall.

She blinks, opens her mouth to speak – and closes it again, completely lost for something to say. Emma’s smiling a little, her lips curved upwards while her eyes scan Regina’s face, searching for some kind of answer –

“Emma,” Regina manages, and then falls silent.

“Before you ask, it’s not because I feel responsible,” Emma says quickly, half-rolling her eyes at the thought and stepping another inch closer. “I don’t…I don’t just want you to be happy because you should be happy, Regina, okay? I mean, yeah, you should be happy, of _course_ you should be happy, but it’s not – I’m not, just, trying to do something for you, I mean – ” she stops, takes a deep, shaky breath. Her hands keep tightening into fists and then opening again, a nervous flutter against the sides of her leather jacket – “I want –”

This isn’t right. Regina blinks, hard, but Emma’s still standing in front of her, and _this isn’t how it’s supposed to go,_ this isn’t supposed to be what Emma wants; Regina is supposed to go home alone, and wait for the world to stop feeling too bright for her eyes, and Emma is supposed to go home to her family, and _have her baby_ , and not be standing here in front of Regina and talking about _wanting –_

“I want to be selfish, okay,” Emma says, her voice suddenly dropping to barely more than a whisper. Regina leans in unconsciously, straining to hear her next words. “I know it’s fast, but I want…it’s not sudden, for me, I just… Didn’t know how to – see it.“

 “See it,” Regina repeats, somewhat blankly. “See what?”

“What I want,” Emma says, eyes fixed so directly on Regina’s that she can’t look away; can’t look anywhere else. “I want - “

Regina swallows, mouth dry. _I want -_

“What?” she asks again, relentless now. _Just say it, Emma, please just say it -_

“I want - ” Emma stops, and lets out a shaky laugh. “God, Regina, do I have to do all the work here?”

She’s standing very close to Regina now; Regina can count every eyelash, can see the individual drops of ice water clinging to her eyebrows, can measure each breath as it passes Emma’s lips.

“No,” she says slowly, feeling the world start to turn again under her feet. “No, I guess you don’t.”

Emma lets out a small, confused-sounding laugh – she opens her mouth, like she’s about to ask Regina what she means –

But Regina…Regina is _done_ trying to talk herself out of this.

One last step brings her close enough to Emma to lift her hands up to cup her cheeks. She runs her thumb over Emma’s cheekbone, feels Emma’s quick intake of breath in response –

She leans in, and kisses her. _Kisses her,_ slow and sure and careful, feeling the way Emma’s lips part against hers, hearing the way Emma takes in another half-surprised breath of cold air, letting her eyes fall closed so all she sees is the red, jumbled inside of her eyelids, flashes of light bursting across her view –

Emma sways into her, hands going to the front of Regina’s coat to hold both of them steady. Her forehead bumps against Regina’s, and they both laugh; Regina opens her eyes to find Emma already staring at her, and they pull apart just far enough for Emma to say, quietly, “That’s what I want.”

Regina nods, her heart beating so fast against her chest she feels like there’s a wild, excited bird living inside her ribcage; finally set free. “Well, then,” she says, just as quiet, and Emma starts to laugh.

“Well, then?” she asks, her voice teasing and warm and so, _so_ happy; Regina feels her cheeks heat up with a smiling, unconscious blush. “Is that alright by you, _Your Majesty?”_

Regina snorts, and lifts her head when Emma leans in to press another kiss to the corner of her mouth. “I think…” she starts, smiling when Emma raises one teasing eyebrow. _God,_ she’s never going to manage another full sentence at this rate. “I think that’d be…”

Emma laughs, and kisses her again – once, twice, three times, her lips a warm shock in the cold air, against Regina’s cheek and her jaw and the tip of her nose –

“Good,” Regina manages, laughing; her hands have dropped to Emma’s shoulders now, her fingers winding thoughtlessly through a few loose strands of hair.

“Good,” Emma repeats, snorting slightly. “That’s good. Had me worried, there.”

Regina laughs, louder now, the sound pealing through the half-deserted street. “Emma,” she says, half-exasperated. “Did you really not know?”

Emma shrugs defensively, her cheeks pink; she smiles when Regina tucks a curl of hair behind one of her ears. “I don’t know, I guess… You never said anything, and after I kissed you, you – “

“ _You_ ran away,” Regina counters, and Emma huffs out a defeated kind of sigh.

“I guess that’s on me.”

“No – ” Regina grips Emma’s shoulders tighter almost without realising it. “No, _Emma,_ I didn’t blame you – ”

“I know,” Emma smiles, running her hands up Regina’s coat and pressing two fingers to the exposed stripe of skin above her collarbone; Regina feels her pulse jump in response. “I know that now.”

 _God._  

“But to be clear,” Emma continues, her voice stronger now, determined. “I want this, okay? For me. Not because of some…happy ending thing you think I feel bound to, or something. Just for me.”

Regina breathes out, and smiles. “Okay.”

“I spent a long time worrying about that,” Emma says, then. “About what…other people wanted me to be, but you –”

She cuts herself off, and Regina waits.

“You just wanted me to be Emma,” Emma says finally, and that’s all Regina needs to hear before she leans in and presses her forehead against Emma’s again.

“That’s all I want,” she nods, her hands sliding over the front of Emma’s jacket – her heart beating against Regina’s palms – “Just you, Emma, that’s all you’ve ever got to be ”

“I want that,” Emma whispers, shuddering slightly as Regina’s hands slide lower, her fingers dancing over the zipper to her jacket and then smoothing over the swell of her stomach.

The snow is still falling thickly against Regina’s hair, the wind is still tugging at her fingertips, but she’s never felt more grounded. Emma’s eyes are burning into hers, green-blue-grey against the inky black sky, and as Regina lets her hands press against the front of her jacket she can feel an insistent, fluttering _kick_ against her palm –

Emma breathes in, lips parting in a smile. “Feel that?”

Regina nods, mutely; just presses her palm to Emma’s stomach, feeling Emma’s baby kick back against her hand. When the kicking slows, and then stops, Emma lets out a long, shaky breath.

“That’s her,” she says, laughing a little. “Two more months.”

 _Two more months._ Regina nods, smiling. “You’ll get there.” Emma shakes her head. “No?”

“We’ll get there,” she says, her voice low and intimate now; she raises one hand, threads her fingers through Regina’s. “Okay?”

And there are conversations to have – questions about _parenting,_ and _not overstepping boundaries,_ and _what about Henry_ and _where are you going to live –_

“C’mon,” Emma smiles, swinging their linked hands between them as they slowly start to walk further along the high street. “Let’s go home.”

They’ve got a lot to work out, between them; but Emma’s right. They’ll get there.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes edited in 2018 just to say I'm mosdtly hanging out on tumblr & twitter (bringyouhometoo everywhere) for now!!
> 
> And comet from 2016 would still like to add: THANK YOU for reading. This little fic has grown into quite the endeavour, and every time someone's taken the time to read it or let me know that they did has meant the absolute world to me. Wah. I love fandom.
> 
> <3


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